All Alone in the Night
by Kelaine729
Summary: For those unhappy with how the Underworld story went, a completely different take. The people of Storybrooke are trapped in the Underworld. The barrier that protects them from the darkness is failing. Belle may be able to save them. But, all magic comes with a price. What will trusting the Dark One cost? And will she even survive to pay it?
1. The Night Land

**Note:** This is based on the 1912 horror classic "The Night Land" by William Hope Hodgson. "The Night Land" takes place millions of years in a future where the sun has gone out and last remnants of humanity live in a giant pyramid called The Last Redoubt protected and powered by a barrier called the Earth current. The land outside is inhabited by monsters and demons waiting for the inevitable day when the current dies and they can destroy the last survivors inside. I am taking liberties with the geography and several other details, although I've kept some of the nearly Victorian culture.

X

One of the Silent Ones walked along their road through the eternal night. The Great Pyramid, lit by the Barrier that surrounded it, was far enough away that human eyes could not have made out any details. Yet, the hooded figure paused, looking towards the great edifice, as a small figure ran out its gates.

This was unusual. The dwellers in the Pyramid sent out their explorers and adventurers from time to time. Usually lone travelers, sometimes small bands. Some returned, some did not, suffering death or worse. But, these would-be-heroes moved with caution as they passed the protection of the Pyramid and the glowing Barrier that surrounded it. They never ran.

Yet, this one did. The Silent One watched curiously. To the best of its knowledge, those who hid inside the Pyramid did nothing worse to their enemies—their human enemies—than kill them. The Night was not so kind. No matter what punishment they fled, no human—no sane human—would trade the Pyramid's safety for the outside.

Perhaps this one was not sane? Perhaps possessed or bespelled? Now and then, whispers found their way inside the Pyramid. Prey could be lured out, though the Silent Ones normally sensed it when such things happened.

The traveler was clad in the dull, gray armor of its kind. It carried a diskos, their favored weapon, a metal staff with a sharp blade at the end that could be made to glow with a terrible light. The light itself was enough to drive off some of the lesser creatures. The Silent Ones were not so easily frightened. They did not _fear_ the Pyramid and its powers. They only waited, patiently, keeping to their own paths till the appointed hour.

The traveler also carried a pack so it was armed and had supplies. Bespelled or not, it had some rationality left.

It stopped once it had put some distance between itself and the Pyramid. Turning back, it saw there was no pursuit. It paused to take its bearings, choosing its course.

It began making its way to the Road of the Silent Ones.

A rational choice, the watcher knew. Its kind didn't kill. Or feed upon souls.

Except when they did.

The traveler was headed for a piece of the road only a little farther ahead. The Silent One walked towards it.

X

Belle hadn't known what to think when the guard came to get her in the Hall of Records to tell her Jefferson was asking for her. She knew Jefferson. He was one of the Monstruwacans, the guardians who kept watch over the Pyramid, but he had often been in the Hall. He was the one normally sent by the Master Monstruwacan to deliver copies of their reports or to request information from the past. But, not long ago, the news had been spread through the Pyramid that Jefferson had requested permission to go out into the Night, the land outside the Pyramid.

It was always a grave thing when such a request was made, and there were strict laws. No one who had not passed his twenty-first year was allowed out. The man who made the request was evaluated, to make sure he was sane, and was given special training and preparation. He was also given a very thorough, graphic understanding of what had happened to some who had been reckless enough to go outside.

"He." It was always a "he." That was the other part of the law: No female was allowed into the Night—not ever.

But, the law allowed a widower with a young daughter to risk his life and soul. Belle didn't understand why.

At least, he'd returned, wounded but alive. Or alive for now.

He'd returned, Belle reminded herself. His soul was his own. No matter what else happened, she had to be grateful for that.

The Master of the Hall of Records gave her permission to leave. Belle got her diskos and followed the guard. Unlike Belle, the guard, of course, was in full armor, his diskos fully lit, though they were fairly safe so deep in the Great Pyramid

"How is he?" Belle asked.

"He'll live," the guard said. "I think. The Healers can tell you more."

Meaning that was all he knew or all he was allowed to tell her. Belle tried a different tack. "Is his daughter there?" Grace wouldn't leave her father's side if they weren't sure he would get well, Belle was certain of it.

"She hasn't been told he's back yet," the guard said. "He wished to speak to you first."

Belle tried to keep her expression neutral, but it was almost impossible. Everyone knew how close and protective Jefferson was of Grace. Jefferson was Belle's friend—a good friend—but nothing more. Why did he need to see her before his daughter even knew he was alive?

The guards in the Halls of Healing let Belle through. She murmured the Word as she passed each of them, barely pausing to hear them say it back.

The Word. It was their first protection, the one even children were taught to say. Belle had thought of it as magic as a child, once she understood its power.

Her mother had shaken her head. "There's no such thing as magic, little one," she told her. "Not in all the world."

No such thing as magic. Belle hadn't understood that then. Light and dark were matters of science, and what humans called the soul could be measured and weighed. The word was the distillation of that knowledge. Only humans with uncorrupted souls could say it or even think it. Sometimes, the sound alone was enough to drive back the Night Dwellers. Even when it didn't, it weakened them—and it revealed anything that pretended to be human but wasn't by their silence. In the rest of the Great Pyramid, it was the first thing people said to each other when they met. Here, in the Halls of Healing, it was a constant murmur. Years of training kicked in, and Belle found herself unconsciously joining the litany, repeating it back each time she heard it.

Most of the sick and injured were in a single room with beds on either side. Jefferson, however, was in a small alcove separate from the others with his own guards. He was one of the honored travelers, after all. He had ventured into the Night and returned alive and uncorrupted.

He had also been injured by the Night Dwellers. Those that could make their way into the Pyramid would be drawn by the scent of his blood. He needed special protection—and the other patients, in their weakened states, needed to be protected from whatever danger he might draw.

Still, the Halls of Healing were among the safest left in the Pyramid. The guards were wary but not afraid—not _too_ afraid. They stood back as Belle reached Jefferson's bedside. No one was ever alone in the Pyramid, of course—not _really_ alone. But, the guards gave the two of them as much privacy as they could.

Jefferson was sickly pale where he wasn't bruised or covered in bandages. His eyes were almost too swollen to open. He was so battered, Belle didn't dare touch him for fear of the pain it would cause.

"Jefferson?" she asked uncertainly. Could he hear her? Was he even conscious?

Jefferson's swollen eyes opened a crack. He managed a weak, painful smile. "Hey . . . Bluebell . . . good to see you,"

 _Bluebell._ The nickname was a scholar's joke. The last ornamental flower had died over a hundred years ago, but Jefferson had enjoyed looking through books of plants and that mythical time called _the daylight world_. For some reason, the bluebell had struck his fancy and become her name.

"Good to see you, too," Belle told him and said the Word.

Jefferson's eyes narrowed for a long, silent moment. Belle felt her heart thud against her chest. Why didn't he say it? He must have said it before he was allowed back into the Pyramid. Nothing that couldn't prove its humanity was allowed here, _nothing._

Unless—unless Jefferson had been dying, unless there was something inside him draining him away and waiting for its chance. . . .

Jefferson spoke the Word, and Belle forced herself to relax. "Why did you do it, Jefferson?" Belle said. "Why get me instead of Grace?" She meant to keep her voice calm, but thinking of Grace and everything Jefferson had risked flared her anger. "Why go into the Night?" she demanded. "What did you expect to find? What would happen to Grace if you died?"

"Grace . . . is why I . . . had to go. . . ." Jefferson's voice trailed off. For a moment, Belle thought he'd drifted into unconsciousness or sleep.

Instead, he took a long, shuddering breath, forcing himself to go on. He glanced at the guards and spoke in barely more than a whisper. "You've . . . read the records, Bluebell. . . . The Barrier . . . is weakening. . . . When it falls . . . inside . . . outside . . . won't matter."

Belle dug her nails into her palms. There had been a time when the Pyramid was _safe_. Nothing worse than whispers from outside could make it in, and those were easy to detect. Over time, _things—_ weak and insubstantial, but _real_ —had begun to find their way into the Pyramid. They were paltry and frail. But, enough attacks, even by things that were paltry and frail could kill.

The attacks had increased even since Belle was a girl. Now, _everyone_ was trained to use the diskos and no one went anywhere without it. They all took their turns at guard duty and had armor to wear when they did it.

When the Barrier failed, the Night Dwellers would swarm the Pyramid. The people would fight but they all knew how it would end.

They did the only thing they could. They went from day to day and hoped that the end was still a long way off. When it came, they hoped to die well—and not to face anything worse than death.

And they tried their best not to think of it—or speak of it.

Jefferson was injured, Belle reminded herself. From the look of him, he'd been lucky to make it back. She didn't chide him for saying what should _never_ be said. He was battered and sick. He needed to be humored. "You're telling me you found an answer?"

Jefferson nodded. He looked around carefully, but the guards were watching for things that might attack. They only glanced, now and then, at Jefferson and Belle, to make sure they were still all right. Reaching beneath his blankets, he pulled out a small, white sack with a golden drawstring. Belle didn't recognize the cloth. It had a silkiness that reminded her of her mother's hair. But, the gold. . . . Belle ran a finger along it, with the strange feeling she should know what it was.

"Find . . . him. . . ." Jefferson whispered. "Tell him. . . . I don't know . . . who locked us up . . . in this world. But . . . tell him. . . ." It was getting harder and harder for Jefferson to speak. "He'll . . . protect you. . . . But, you have to tell him . . . tell him I found you . . . tell him . . . protect Grace. . . ."

He slumped back, his eyes closing. Belle gasped and jerked back, calling for help. No less than three Healers hurried over. They murmured the Word almost like a mantra. Healers often did. Evil things were too often the cause of strange ailments. The Word drove them back. Belle found herself repeating the Word with them even as she got out of their way.

It attracted the attention of one of the Healers. "He's all right," the Healer told her. A tall, fair-haired man, it took her a moment to remember his name. Victor, that was it. "He's exhausted. I'm surprised he managed to stay awake this long, but he insisted he had to speak to you." The Healer looked her over in a speculative way that made Belle blush.

"Is he—Will he get better?" Belle asked.

The Healer nodded. "With proper care and time. He needs rest more than anything. You don't need to worry. But, you should go, now. We'll summon you if there's a change."

Belle nodded, taking her diskos and hurrying off. Despite the weapon in her hand and the other people she passed in the corridors, she felt vulnerable as she made her way back to the Hall of Records and found herself wishing for her armor.

Once she returned to the Hall of Records, the Master wanted her report on Jefferson. Belle wanted time to think over what Jefferson had said, not be interrogated by the Master, but it was his right. Belle stood at attention while he questioned her, an scribe sitting by to take notes.

The Master, of course, wanted to know everything. What injuries did Jefferson have? How extensive were they? Were the Healers taking any special precautions?

"Did he speak to you?" the Master asked.

"A little," Belle said. "He was very confused. I'm not sure I understood what he was saying. I gathered he . . . he hoped his quest would benefit his daughter."

"Were those his exact words?"

"He said it was to protect Grace. Or maybe he was asking me to protect Grace. I—I'm not sure." She thought of the strange things Jefferson had said and shook her head. "I didn't understand him."

The Master, who had spoken to other travelers and read their records, nodded. "He may make more sense when he recovers. But, why did he summon you? I hadn't thought you were particularly close."

Belle wondered if the Master spoke from scholarly interest or if he were digging for gossip. Either way, all she could do was shrug helplessly. "We're friends, nothing more," she said. "Maybe it was because I helped him search the records before he went out. Maybe . . . he was confused when we spoke. Maybe it made sense to an injured man." And one who had sounded half-mad, even to Belle.

The Master nodded understandingly. "It's often like that, for those who return." He looked at her speculatively. "Do you think it's possible his feelings for you are deeper than you realized before he left?"

Belle's hand tightened on the diskos. It was a logical question, she told herself. And the Master of the Hall of Records only cared for getting the words written down accurately, not for the embarrassment he caused. Or that was what she had to tell herself. "I don't know, Master. Possibly."

"Hmm. Well, it will no doubt be made clear in time."

That was the end of the interview. Belle made her way back to her desk, half-relieved, half-guilty. The Scholars believed in accuracy. There had been times in the past where their survival depended on the Archives. People died because of secrets and lies. Belle had a duty to show the Master what Jefferson had given her.

But, Jefferson had chanced the Night to bring back the small bag he'd put in her hand and whatever secret he thought it contained.

 _The Barrier is weakening. When it fails, inside, outside won't matter._

Making sure no one was looking at her, Belle slipped it out of her robe and opened it, her fingers brushing once again against the gold and feeling that sense of almost remembering. Two things slipped out of it. One was a tiny wheel made of gold.

 _A spinning wheel,_ Belle thought, not knowing where the name came from or what it meant. She must be half-remembering something from one of the far-too-many-books she'd read.

The other was something impossible, something that hadn't existed in over a hundred years.

The blood-red blossom of a rose lay in her hand against the gold.


	2. Forgotten Garden

There was light. All around Belle, soft and golden, the world glowed with gentle warmth. Looking up, the ceiling seemed to stretch to an infinite distance, a vault made to house some monstrous, mountain-like creature. But, there was no terror here, none of the horrible dread that ate her when she looked out on the Night beyond the Pyramid—and could feel the Night looking back. The infinite dome was a deep, cerulean blue, the color of some long dead flower or lost gem.

 _Sky,_ she thought, not knowing where the word came from but feeling it was right. The great ceiling was called _sky._

She walked across something soft, as if blankets and sleeping pallets had been laid across the hard floor. It was strange, green stuff. Belle knelt down and looked at it, running her finger along it. The floor, she saw, was actually dark brown, oddly moist beneath her fingers. The green sprung up out of it, softer and smoother than paper, not unlike the cloth of the strange sack Jefferson had given her, though thinner and stiffer.

There were strange sounds, like and unlike music. Belle got up and walked further. She came to a place where the green stuff ended abruptly, cut off by a shallow trench where something strange and glittering lay. Belle's first thought was the creepers with their slime covered, chitinous hides. But this was clearer, glass-like. Its shelled scales rose and fell, almost pulsing. That was where part almost-music she heard was coming from.

She couldn't see a head or limbs. Was it some kind of worm or serpent? Belle didn't move, wondering if it had seen her and how quickly it could attack. For the first time, she realized she didn't have her diskos. She was facing a nightmare and had nothing to defend herself.

Except it wasn't a nightmare. The thing she was looking at, it was water. The strange pulsing was ripples, like the flow of water from a faucet or (the image came strangely to mind) when water carelessly spilled over the rim of a cup (impossible, it never happened. Cups were made so no a drop of precious water was ever wasted. But, the image of a cup with a chip edge was still there in her mind's eye).

So much water all in one place, _flowing_. If all the storage tanks of the Pyramid were cracked open, could they make such a thing as this?

Then, Belle saw the creatures flashing _inside_ the water. Some were spotted white and orange and the same dark brown as the moist floor beneath her feet. Some were a burning orange-red. Like fire in the alchemist-scholars' labs, if fire could be warm and welcoming. She thought of the flower Jefferson had given her. None of the flowers she had read of in the histories had flickered or danced as these creatures did, but she could think of no other word to describe them.

 _Fish._ The name popped into Belle's mind. These were _fish._ Water moving through a narrow trench, that had a name as well: _stream—_ **a** _stream,_ as if there could be many such impossible things.

And the stuff she stood on was _grass_ and _earth._ The music that wasn't music and wasn't the stream, that was _birdsong._ It was likely coming from the twisted growths she saw beyond the _stream_ that should be monstrous but weren't. She knew their name too. They were _trees._

For the first time, Belle looked at herself. Instead of the nondescript robes of a scholar, she wore a _skirt_ and matching _vest_ as blue as the _sky_ above her. She had a _blouse_ of thin, white cloth with barely any sleeves, yet she didn't feel cold. Looking down at her feet, she saw she was wearing impractical, _sky_ -colored shoes that looked as pretty as a flower or a _fish._

"Lollygagging about, are you?"

Belle started. A man had come up behind her. His clothes were as strange as hers. He wore a gold shirt with wide sleeves gathered at the wrist. _Like Jefferson's bag,_ she thought, recognizing the cloth. _Silk_ , it was called _silk._

Over it, he wore a _vest_ of red _embroidered_ with gold ( _embroidery_. An image flitted through her mind of hours of careful, skillful work, like an artist drawing but done with a sliver of needle instead of a pen). He wore a tangled _cravat_ at his throat and trousers of _leather_ ( _leather._ For some reason she thought of creepers, truly and finally dead, their still limbs being stripped of their shells). He wore boots, also of _leather_ , laced up with ties that must take hours to get right.

"Well, well, enough of that. If I'd known a few, tweeting birdies—" he made flamboyant gesture that somehow indicated 'tweeting birdies,' "—I'd never have let the annoying things in."

"You let them in?" She meant it as a question but it came out as something else: smug, knowing. It sounded as though she were proving a point.

Flirting with him, Belle thought, aghast. She sounded as though she were _flirting_ with him.

"I thought the racket they made was a little less annoying than hearing you _whine_ about how quiet it is—not that it has been, since you arrived. It's a wonder I get any work done at all with you always underfoot. Now, come here and sit down. I have a list of chores for you today—if you can stop staring at fish long enough to get to any of them."

He turned around and marched off to a small table that had somehow appeared on the grass, two chairs beside it. They were metal painted white, worked in unfamiliar, elegant patterns.

 _Filigreed_ , Belle thought.

He told her to fix his _tea_ , which she did, somehow knowing how he would like it. He took a sip, shooting her a quick glance over the cup's rim (the rim was chipped. She wondered why that didn't seem odd). The glance made her think of a child, a naughty little boy not wanting to get caught paying attention. When his eyes met hers, he became flustered. "Well, there's _one_ thing you can do right," he said, taking another quick sip of _tea_. "Now, that list of things to do today, you'll be working in the great hall—don't disturb me. You know how I hate for you to disturb me. Just—just act as though you aren't even there. . . ." He gave her another, secret glance, shy and uncertain.

"Belle."

There was a man standing behind her. His voice was like the man's beside her only deeper, less teasing and childlike. She turned and saw man dressed in somber black. He was the same as the man beside her—but different. She realized she didn't know what the man drinking tea looked like. She could remember every inch of his clothes, his gestures, the sound of his voice—but the shape of his face, the color of his eyes, those were gone. Belle could remember every detail of the way his hands had flashed about as he mocked the _birdies_ singing in the trees but couldn't recall a single detail of his hands, were his nails long or short? Were his hands rough, wrinkled, smooth? She didn't know.

All she knew was that this man was like him but not like him. He looked at her with deep, expressive eyes full of sadness and pain. But, staring right into them, she didn't even know what color they were.

"Come back to me," the man said. "I tried, sweetheart. I'm so sorry. Please, come back to me."

X

Belle woke with a start. She was in her bunk in the dormitory. Ruby, on shift for guard, was suddenly beside her, already on alert, her weapon ready.

"Belle, what's wrong?"

Belle shook her head. Everyone took their shift for guard in the dorm, of course, but Ruby was a _real_ guard. She'd even drawn _gate_ duty, something unheard of for a woman (only the inner gate. The Seven guarded the outer gate. The guards of the outer gate might stay within the relative safety of the Pyramid, but there was always the _chance_ they might be forced outside to drive off danger. The law was absolute: No female—not _ever_ —went out into the Night. Not even a warrior as gifted as Ruby).

"A nightmare," Belle told her. "I—I saw Jefferson today."

"Oh," Ruby said, relaxing. "Right. That was bad." She said the Word. Belle said it back. Ruby relaxed some more (she never relaxed _completely_ , that's why she was a guard). Scanning the room again, looking for danger among the sleeping women, Ruby shifted her grip on her diskos. "Try to get some sleep," she said. "I've got to make the rounds."

Belle nodded. Ruby wouldn't break discipline to ask about the dream or talk about Jefferson, much as she might want to—this was Ruby after all, the best guard in the Pyramid, even if she was a woman. She had discipline like iron when she was on duty.

 _Because bad things happen when guards relax too much,_ Belle thought. They all knew what was out in the Night, just waiting for a chance to get in.

She lay back, thinking of the golden wheel and the impossible flower Jefferson had given her. She should report them. Even if they weren't evil, they were from outside. They weren't safe to have around.

She pictured the flower, red petals around its golden heart. The gold wheel spun in her mind. Half-dreaming, she pictured the wheel as something like a pot or a helmet, only made of stiff cloth. Jefferson was spinning it around and reaching in.

"Dark One," he whispered. "Dark One, she's here. "Help me. I can get her to you, but help me. Help my Grace."

He pulled out his hand, holding the bag of _silk_ with its drawstring of gold.

 _Come._

Belle's eyes flew open but she kept still, not wanting to attract the attention of Ruby or another guard.

The voice in her mind spoke again.

 _Come._

Hesitantly, uncertain, Belle thought the Word.

She had a sense of something being surprised—but not hurt or driven back.

Had it not known she was human? Had it not expected her to answer?

It sent the word back to her.

 _Who are you?_ Belle asked silently.

There was another pause. Words were dredged up from her memories. Or that was what they felt like, echoes from the past.

 _I can save you,_ the memory said.

 _I can save your little town._

Then, she felt words again, words she was sure were being spoken now, in the present.

 _Come to me._


	3. Her Mother's Sword

Memories.

It must be something about worry, Belle thought, that made memories seem thin and unreal, faded stories that had happened to someone else.

 _We are both. . . ._

Was that something she'd read in the archives? She couldn't remember. It had been something about wondering which was real, the world of dreams or the world of waking. We are made of both, the writer had said. Both were real. Neither was whole without the other.

If that was so, why did the waking world, the world of the Pyramid, seem so thin and hollow to her?

Belle thought of her mother. _Those_ memories felt solid and real. Her mother's smile, her laughter, the books she had read to Belle as a child. If some of the other details were blurry, well, that was normal for childhood memories, wasn't it? The memory of her mother's love, that was clear and strong.

Belle's mother had taught her to always use the Word. When she was little, she hadn't understood why. It was just what people said when they met. Her mother taught her to make the different marks that meant the Word, too. It was different than other writing. Other writing was letters that meant sounds. The Word . . . Belle could say it, she could _think_ it, but she couldn't think of the sounds it made. When she tried to write it with letters, all she got were scribbles.

"It's a human thing," her mother told her. "Only people with human souls can say it. Demons can't. Even paper can't hold it."

"Is it magic?" Belle asked.

Her mother had shook her head sadly. "There's no such thing as magic, little one. I wish there were."

Attacks had been fewer in those days. Belle had been almost four before she understood the real power the Word had. She had been looking through a book when she felt something, a strange chill in the room. She had looked up and seen the creature. It was about a third her size, shelled, the gray-white of a swollen blister, with far too many long, razor-tipped legs. It had no eyes but it seemed to feel her looking at it. It leapt at her, knife limbs stretching towards her face. Belle screamed.

It shattered into a thousand pieces as it landed on her, each piece crawling over her with bladed legs. Belle swatted at them, still screaming again as the swarmed over her.

Then, her mother was there. She had her diskos. It burned with light. Belle could hear her mother shouting the Word over and over again. As she touched Belle with the diskos, the pain vanished. The tiny creatures melted away, like ice in flame.

She'd been lucky. The creatures that made their way into the Pyramid had no bodies, not really. They were images of fear and thought. The one that had gone after her hadn't been clever. Its attack had been crude, a hunt for a child's raw terror, nothing more.

Clever ones lured children away, trying to soothe them and spirit them out of sight so the creatures could feed at their leisure. Deaths were still rare, but there were worse things than being a little stung and terribly frightened.

But, the Word was their protection, that was what her mother explained to her after she'd killed Belle's attacker. For weak, little creatures, like that one, it was often enough. If Belle had yelled the Word at the creature, instead of just screaming, it would have been driven off. Even if it had been a powerful one, the Word would have weakened it.

Most important of all, however, was the simple rule: Only human things with human souls could use the Word. The monsters that ruled their world could not.

Attacks had grown more frequent as Belle grew older. They were still only weaker things, she reminded herself. The Pyramid was protected by the Barrier, and the Barrier still held. The creature that attacked Belle had looked like a creeper. But, creepers had bodies of flesh and blood—or something close enough to flesh and blood it might as well be called that. The thing her mother drove off had dissolved, leaving no body behind as a creeper would have.

 _The Word was the first defense_ , Belle repeated silently as she walked the Pyramid's halls, saying it to people she passed. Children learned to say it before they picked up their first weapon. The creatures that belonged to the Night, the ones who preyed on Belle's kind, could not say it or even think it.

Or that was what they were taught.

Long ago, so Belle had read in the records, it had been enough. In those days, the Barrier was strong. The few things that could slip past it were too weakened to pose a true threat. At worst, they could only lure someone into stupid, foolish acts. They had no power of their own to cause harm, not like the thing Belle's mother killed.

Long ago, so the ancient records said, the Pyramid had been so safe, people slept in the dark, dimming the lights because (so it was written) it helped them rest. Belle thought of lying alone in the dark (people in those days had often been alone), not knowing what else might be with you or what it might be planning to do.

Yet, they'd survived. They'd slept soundly, unharmed. Belle couldn't imagine it.

The Barrier grew weaker, but the Word still had power. None of the creatures or forces that hated her kind could send it out when they called in the Night. Everyone knew that was true—it _had_ to be true.

Although, Belle thought ruefully, in those long ago days, women were never trained to fight. Belle wouldn't have even had a diskos back then. As for the men, they might have been trained, but most had never needed it. No one, except those few, mad souls like Jefferson who dared the Night itself were given even the Lesser Preparation. Now, they all were.

Their home—the Great Pyramid, they called it, the Fortress, the Citadel, the Last Redoubt—still held. The few creatures from Outside Belle had fought had all been lesser things, easily dispatched (not _killed_ , she supposed. There had to be bodies left for things to be _killed_ ).

Spirits, the Ancients had called some of them. Demons, according to others. They found their way in, growing in strength. Meanwhile, her people grew fewer with each generation. The astral beasts that slipped past the Barrier were more than the disembodied voices their ancestors had faced. These things could drain life and poison souls.

And that they could enter at all could only mean one thing: the Barrier was failing. The Pyramid would fall. It might not be today, it might not be tomorrow—it might not even be within Belle's lifetime, though she feared it would be much sooner than that—but it would fall.

Unless. . . .

Unless they could find help. Unless—somehow—they could be rescued.

That was impossible. Everyone knew they were the last. There was no one— _no one_ —outside the Citadel they could turn to for help.

The Pyramid stretched high into the darkness and spread even further beneath. There were observation windows, thick as the walls around them and harder than diamond. In her free hours, Belle had taken to going to them and looking out on the Night.

That was what they called it, just as they called the lighted walls within the Pyramid _Day._ Belle, who had read the ancient myths, knew long forgotten tales that said once the world itself had known _Day._ The whole world had known light, though it went by different names: _Day, Moon, Stars, Sun._ They spoke of light, hanging like a lamp, high above the Earth. Some spoke of one light, so bright it was burned the eyes of those who looked at it. Some spoke of many, cool, friendly lights that could not only be looked at, they could be used to guide wanderers home, pointing the way.

It was all nonsense, so the masters of the Hall of Records said, fairy tales for children. The world had always been only what it was now, no more, no less. Only the powers of the Night had grown stronger. Humanity had gathered to this one place and combined their strength to build the great Fortress that would protect them throughout the ages. Besides thick walls, they had tapped the power of the Earth Current, the spark of life deep within the world that had given them birth. That was the power that gave life to the Citadel, that created the Barrier that kept the creatures of the Night away from her kind.

That power—the Earth itself—was dying.

Belle pictured it as a heart, the world's heart, a red jewel pulsing with life, slowly darkening as the Night ate away at it. The red spark at its center grew dimmer and dimmer. Soon it would fade away entirely.

When that day came, her people would die.

Belle looked out at the world beyond the Pyramid.

She did not look up, of course. There was nothing above except darkness and more darkness. Some of the lands around, though, were lit by the Barrier. Belle could see creatures in the plains. A few creepers passed only a short distance from the gates.

The creepers had grown more common over the centuries. Pale and spindly-limbed, with bloated, chitinous bodies. Other details were subject to change. Belle had watched them attack and eat parts of each other. Even without a head—even with half a body gone—she had seen the losers (part of a loser) scamper off. She had also seen the victors, glutted and full, take leftover bits and pieces of their meals—a limb here, a pincer there—crack a hole in their shells or make a tear in the skin, and fit the stolen parts in. They would twitch to life after a moment or so, and the creepers would scramble off into the darkness.

The ones today didn't fight. They seemed content to watch the gates and those who guarded them before wandering back into the shadows.

There were other creatures that lived in the Night. The Ogres looked something like men. Some could almost be mistaken for human at a distance. Some were only enough like to give her nightmares. They fed on the other Night beasts and on each other.

There were other sources of light Outside. There was a long fissure deep in the earth. Red flame and smoke rose from it. This was where the Great Ogres had their forge, or so the people of the Pyramid called it. They could see the creatures working diligently in the flames, but what they made or why was a mystery.

Further down, the Shadow Watcher, a dark shape that sometimes crawled up out of the fissure and crouched along the edge. It would stare at the Citadel for hours before crawling back into the flames. No one knew if it was one Watcher or many, though Belle had read of the deaths of those who had tried to find out.

So many foolish deaths, Belle thought. There were many who, over the eons the Pyramid had stood, had gone out into the Night. Those who returned were honored, their accounts added to the Hall of Records. Those who didn't. . . .

The people of the Pyramid prayed for them and hoped their deaths had been swift, just as they prayed that nothing worse than death had befallen them.

Outside, Belle knew, were mountains, mountains whose cragged walls had slowly eroded and changed over the ages. Faces could be seen in them, faces that watched the Citadel with hungry eyes. Mad laughter could sometimes be heard echoing through the dark, its source unknown.

But, that wasn't what drew Belle's eyes today. Today, she traced the path to the Seven Lights.

The lights glowed on distant mountains—true mountains, or ones whose faces had never been seen.

No traveler who reached those lights had ever returned.

She scanned the plains outside the Citadel. The safest road (if any road in the Night could be called safe) would be along the Road Where the Silent Ones Walked.

No one knew the truth of the Silent Ones, if they were good or evil or something else entirely. No other creatures disturbed them in the places they claimed as theirs. They had never been known to attack the Citadel.

And yet, centuries before, a band of youths—foolish and unprepared—had set off into the night on a rescue mission. Half of those lost boys had been slain before they were out of sight of the Citadel. The survivors had struggled to return when . . . _something_ had overcome them. It was as if they were bespelled. They had changed course, turning away from the Citadel, taking the road of the Silent Ones and going to the great house that stood at its end.

The doors had opened. The youths had entered. They were never seen again.

Beyond the road, there was another stretch of plain. It was known only as The Place Where the Silent Ones Kill. Its tale was even older than the history of the Lost Boys. A brave band of explorers had gone out. One had returned despite his wounds. He had lived long enough only to tell how the Silent Ones had slaughtered the others. He had not known why.

It was still the safest road, Belle thought, knowing how little that meant.

She knew how little strength she had. She wasn't Ruby, tall and strong. It was true that, when Belle practiced in the training rooms, she was quick and clever. But, quick and clever only got you so far. There were children who could probably beat her in a fight.

More than that, there was the law. No female went out into the night, not ever.

Belle looked into the darkness, trying to decide the best path.

The Word was a sure guard, so they were taught since childhood.

Since Jefferson had given her the flower and the wheel, she had heard a voice calling into her mind. She had replied, sending out the Word.

And she had been answered.

It was madness. Nothing lived in the Night except enemies of her kind, those who would destroy them. The Pyramid was their last stronghold. There were no others.

But, their enemies could not use the Word.

Unless, like the Barrier, the Word itself was failing. Unless what she heard was a lie luring her to her death or worse.

If that were so, it was already too late.

If not. . . .

 _I am coming,_ Belle sent out into the Night. _Can you hear me? I am coming as soon as I can._

She thought the Word and waited.

After a time, the Word came back to her.

 _Come to me,_ the voice called silently. _I have a deal to make with you. Come._


	4. Falling

Rumplestiltskin felt it as the pirate began to die, the power surging back into him. Then, more power—and more—more than he'd ever imagined.

And, then, the world fell apart.

For a moment, everything around him became flat and unreal, as faded as an old photograph. Then, as if it were being eaten by acid, the photo began to melt, to burn away under invisible flames.

Rumplestiltskin felt the tug of their old world drawing at them, but it was like a faint breeze trying to move stones. Meanwhile, the ground they stood on dissolved, leaving only one place to go: the Underworld.

He saw the people of Storybrooke sliding past him, men and women and children—oh, gods, _children_ —falling into that darkness. He reached out, trying to catch them, any of them; but, they slipped through his fingers, wisps of smoke dissolving at his touch.

Till he touched Miss Swan. He could feel the magic burning in her, light and the lingering taint of dark. The darkness in her was already draining away, but it gave him something to hold onto, a wedge to push his power through, anchoring onto her light before the shadows vanished.

She fought him. Like Rumplestiltskin, she saw the others slipping past, falling into darkness. She struggled to get away, to catch them. But, she could no more hold them than he could.

All the same, Rumplestiltskin waited. He felt like a drowning man holding tight to another lost soul in a raging sea, refusing to let go but refusing to seek safety till all hope was gone.

That moment came all too soon, as he'd known it would. The vortex Hook had opened closed. The road to the Underworld vanished.

Storybrooke was gone. There was nothing left to hold them here. The weak breeze pulling them homeward was now the only force left. Miss Swan still struggled against him, but he was too strong for her. Like a swimmer pushing for shore, he followed the current, letting it guide them home.

X

"How could you?" Emma demanded.

On the list of places she had hoped _never_ to see again, the Dark Castle was pretty near the top—higher up than juvie or the hole in the ground where she'd met Cora—higher up than Rumplestiltskin's cell in the Dwarves' mines. At least, when she'd been trapped there, she'd been with people she _liked._

Gold had changed when they'd landed here, going back to scales and claws and lizard eyes. He was sitting cross-legged on the table in his hall, which (thankfully!) didn't split those skin-tight, leather pants of his. His fingers were laced together, his elbows resting on his legs and his chin resting against the fingers, looking lost in thought—or maybe shock. Emma didn't know and didn't care.

She'd give him this, he seemed more calm than the last time she'd seen him here—or less like a hyper, sadistic five-year-old. She'd yelled every insult in the book at him as she stormed back and forth, pacing the room.

"Henry," she said. "My parents, everyone, they all fell into that—that _place._ What did you do? Henry's your grandson. Even if you don't care about anyone else, how could you do that to him? How could you—I thought you'd changed, become a _hero_ ," Emma made the word more mocking that Gold ever had. "But, you sold us all out. Again."

Gold stirred, seeming to finally notice she was there. "You think I did that, Miss Swan?"

"Who else? You—you did something," she waved a hand at Gold's scales and leather. "That didn't just happen, did it?"

"I took back the power, yes. That doesn't account for this."

"How do you know? Of all the selfish, _stupid—_ "

Gold went back to ignoring her till she finally began to run out of curses. "Are you quite done?" he asked.

"No! Not until you tell me how you're going to fix this!"

"It would be easier, Miss Swan, if I knew exactly what 'this' was. I took the power back. Then, the world fell apart. There've been new Dark Ones made before without this happening—three times, in Storybrooke alone. But, the town still held together."

"Three? I only saw it happen once. Or are you counting Killian?"

"That would make four. But, no, I mean when the Darkness tried to join with the Apprentice. Then, Regina, before you invited it to come inside you."

"I didn't—"

"Oh, but you did, Miss Swan. The Darkness can't enter where it's not asked. Your light magic would have prevented it." He frowned. "It's always needed that. From all its hosts. An invitation. Or a link. The Apprentice had some of Merlin's power in him, the other side of the Dark One. That gave the curse a way in. It just wasn't able to stay. The Apprentice drove it out. I wish I'd known him better. . . .

"As for Regina, she cast the Dark Curse. Among other things. That may have been enough. Or it may only have been threatening her, trying to get you to take it instead."

Emma stopped pacing. "You're saying, if I hadn't taken it, it wouldn't have been able to find a host?"

"Oh, I'm sure it would have found _someone_ , sooner or later, who would have accepted it." He smiled bitterly. "It didn't have to be villain. If history is anything to go by, all it needed was someone too afraid to say no."

"Killian didn't choose it."

"Killian sought the dagger for centuries, knowing the cost. He killed his own father for a chance to destroy me. And he told you to your face becoming the Dark One would be a small price to pay if it meant I were dead. The Darkness needs and _invitation_ , not an informed choice."

Emma rolled her eyes. "So, that's what happened to you when you took it back? You had no choice?"

"Oh, I had a choice, Miss Swan. You can see the results of it for yourself. That still doesn't explain what happened to Storybrooke. Something unraveled the town and it wasn't me."

"Oh, and you have no _idea_ what could have done that."

"I have several. But, unlike you, I don't have any . . . ah, _personal_ experience to confirm it. When I . . . when _Pan_ died, Regina still had to undo the curse, didn't she? What did that look like?"

"The curse? You think—but, the last time, everyone went back. Except Henry. I had to stay with him."

"But, you saw it dissolve?"

"I—no—not really. Regina changed our memories—mine and Henry's. We drove out and didn't look back, not that I remember. I didn't see it happen—But, everyone just went back. It's not like we got sucked into Pan's curse. They _went back._ "

"Because Pan's curse wasn't complete. There was no place for them to go except home. That's why we needed to burn the curse _before_ it happened, remember? This time was different. A doorway had been opened up between Storybrooke and the Underworld. The town was its own reality. Destroy it and, yes, we're drawn back home. But, if there's already an open link to another world, the pull to that will be stronger."

Emma felt her stomach sinking towards her shoes. "You're saying—you think _we_ did that? _We_ sent everyone to the Underworld?"

The look on Gold's face reminded her of Whale standing over Henry in the hospital and pronouncing him dead. "If the curse was destroyed, yes." He searched her face. "Was it?"

Emma nodded, horrified. "We—we thought we could save the town. Like before. That's why Mary Margaret wasn't there. She was watching. If it looked like we'd failed, she was supposed to burn it."

"And, when you faced Hook. . . ."

"It looked like I'd failed. Henry, the others, they're all in the Underworld?"

"Maybe not all of them." Gold's voice was calm, but Emma thought she saw desperation in his reptilian eyes. "Some people, ones who weren't as linked or who were far enough away . . . the people from Camelot might have escaped. They were brought by Hook's spell. When he died and the town dissolved, they might have been sent back."

"We were all brought back by Hook's curse, Henry, my parents, Regina, Robin. I saw them all fall through."

"Your family were all at the epicenter. And they were part of Mary Margaret's curse. But, it's possible some of the others Hook brought back were left behind." Gold sounded desperate, Emma thought, as if he were trying to convince himself. He got up off the table, waved his hand, and summoned something that looked like a crystal ball onto the table. It reminded Emma a bit of the one from the movie, _The Wizard of Oz._

 _I don't want to know,_ Emma thought _._ Instead, she focused on what had happened, there at the end. _I could have stopped it. There had to be something I could have done, if Gold hadn't stopped me. There_ **had** _to be._ She'd tried to grab Henry, her father, _anyone_ as they'd slipped past her, but she'd been pulled away.

"Why did you grab me?" Emma demanded. "You pulled me back. I could have helped them, stopped them from going through—"

Gold waved her concerns aside. "You were already falling through when I grabbed you. Unless you had a plan you hadn't implemented yet, I didn't see that changing."

"I'm the Savior! I'd have figured something out!"

"No, Miss Swan, you're not. You're a child of true love, born to parents who were themselves children of true love. But, you were only the Savior of Regina's curse because I made sure you were written into it that way. Your mother cast the second curse, trusting you would be able to defeat Zelena. Perhaps you were the Savior in that curse, too. I don't know. But, both of those have been undone. In this world, you're a gifted, powerful woman—but you are _not_ its Savior."

He didn't look at her, keeping his eyes on the crystal ball. Faces Emma knew flickered by, Guinevere, Lancelot, Merida, and others. But, then the glass turned dark and stayed dark.

"Who are you looking for?" Emma asked.

"Ruby," he said. "Granny." The crystal didn't change. "Leroy, Doc, Tom Clark. . . ." He put both hands on the glass. "Belle," he whispered.

It stayed dark.

"I thought you sent her away," Emma said.

"It doesn't matter," Rumple said. "She was part of Storybrooke. When it vanished, so did she."

"Are you sure? It's the world without magic. It could be—"

Rumplestiltskin tapped the sphere. A man appeared in a white coat. "The doctor I saw in New York," he told her. The glass shifted, showing a man on a street corner selling hot dogs. "I bought lunch from him for Henry while you were chasing down Bae." The glass turned black again. "Belle."

"What do we do?"

"I don't know, Miss Swan."

"Come on, you've always got a plan—"

" _I don't know._ Do you understand what I'm saying? Do you know how hard it is for me to say that?" He looked up from the darkness between them, and she saw the helplessness in his eyes. His voice was barely a whisper. "I don't _know_."


	5. Belonging to Gold

There was one place in the Pyramid where Belle could be almost guaranteed to be alone. It was also the one place where she could almost— _almost_ —be in the dark.

A little light filtered from the ceiling high above. It was just enough to let her see shadowy outlines of the great, empty space around her. Even with the light of her diskos, gripped tightly in her hands, she was only able to make a small circle of light around her. She saw her feet and the stone path beneath her. Around her, she saw scattered remnants of the past, carved stones that, she knew, had names and dates in a forgotten calendar. Memorial stones, they were called. People had once put them up in memory of their dead. There were also uncarved stones here and there—Belle had no idea what they were for—and a few other objects. She thought that thing looked like some kind of bench. Others were large and misshapen. They looked like they didn't serve any purpose at all.

Except . . . Belle remembered her odd dream. If the _trees_ and _bushes_ had been stripped of their greenery, they might look like that.

Once, so the records said, plants had grown here. She'd always imagined them like some kind of giant, hydroponics lab, like the ones where the Pyramid's food was produced.

The records, though, said otherwise. According to them, plants simply _grew._ None of the records Belle read explained this miracle. It was almost as if the writers expected the reader to take it for granted, plants springing up without containers or feeding tubes bringing water and nutrients.

Fairy tales, she thought. Though, even those stories weren't so wild as to say the plants needed _nothing_. There'd been light. This place (the _cellar_ some texts called it, the _necropolis_ said others) had been "as bright as Day" (whatever that meant when everything inside the Pyramid was Day). There'd also been water.

It hadn't flowed in feeding tubes. Belle hadn't understood the references to it at all, or she hadn't till she had her dream. Now, she wondered if some of the strange breaks she passed in the floor ( _ground,_ she thought. Another word from her dream, she supposed. A floor like this was called _ground_ ) could have been _streams_ or if the strange, hard _ground_ could have ever been like _soil._

 _Streams_. What an insane idea. How could anyone ever waste water that freely?

She peered at the darkness around her. How could this place have ever been full of light and plants?

Whatever they used to make the plants grow, they couldn't keep it up in the end. Whether from tubes or streams or something more unimaginable, there were better uses for the water. It was the first thing that had been taken away.

Not _all_ of it, of course. Or not all at once. What flowed here was slowly drained off for the rest of the Pyramid, a little less day by day. Then, as the Barrier began to weaken, power and light were bled off to feed greater needs.

Oddly, the records were silent on _how_ this was done, though there were stories. Most said what anyone would have expected, that the engineers had simply done their work, rerouted power lines, and left the last flowers to die in the dark. Other stories were more peculiar. Something—the Earth itself or whatever power birthed the Barrier—had made that decision on its own. Humans lived, plants died.

There was, as everyone knew, a shrine in the darkness. A single word was carved over it, _Reginae_. It meant "belonging to the queen" in an ancient language. But, it was called the Tomb of the Sleeping Prince. _Tomb_ was another ancient word. It meant a place where dead bodies were interred.

The idea made Belle shiver. She'd read of things that were drawn to corpses. The least of these simply fed on them. The worst . . . Belle had read accounts of dead bodies made to walk. She didn't want to see it happen in real life.

It wouldn't, of course. The dead were reduced to ashes, then scattered. But, it was hard to remember that as she walked alone through the darkness of this place.

Belle paused and got her bearings. The diskos seemed brighter than it had before. She told herself that was just because of the darkness around her. In the light in the higher levels, the diskos' glow would be nothing more than a glimmer. Bright or not, it was enough for her to notice one of the memorial stones.

No one made them anymore, but that was probably how the stories of buried corpses started, as if anyone really would hide bodies beneath the Pyramid's floor. All the same, she paused and read the inscription:

Neal Cassidy

Beloved Son

Beloved son. Belle felt a stab of grief for this long ago, forgotten child, whoever he was. For some reason, she thought of the legend of the Lost Boys, those brave, foolish heroes breaking out into the Night and being swallowed up by it. Had he been one of them?

As her concentration slipped, the light of the diskos faltered. It flickered oddly, painting shadows on the stone. For a moment, she imagined something else. In that half-light, she caught a glimpse of different words.

 _Fire,_ the stone read, instead of Neal.

Beneath that, she saw another word, _Auri._

It was the same language as _Reginae._ It took her a moment, bue she remembered. _Auri._ Belonging to gold.

But, she was already tightening her grip and focusing her thoughts. The diskos burned as brightly as before.

She went on. There was one thing she needed to do before she left. Despite the darkness and the emptiness, the power that fed the Barrier was said to be stronger here than anywhere else in the Pyramid. Supposedly, there had never even been any attack by one of the Outside's creatures down here (Belle could at least testify no attacks had made it into the records. If anyone died here, there hadn't been enough left for anyone else to notice).

The tales said, when the Barrier failed at last, this would be the place they should gather, the place for humanity's last stand.

Belle reached the gray, stone tomb. A soft glow came from its entryway. The door stood wide open.

Sometimes it was, sometimes it wasn't. Sometimes, a strong man couldn't make the door budge, sometimes it swung open at a child's touch (Belle, who had read some things about drafts and the way damp could weld a door shut one day, then let it open the next, had her suspicions how it worked, but today wasn't the day for testing them).

She went inside. On a stone bier was what the ancients called a _coffin_ , whatever that forgotten word meant. It was made of glass framed with black metal cut in shapes that reminded her of some of the plants from her dream ( _vines_ and _leaves_ she thought those shapes were called). That was where the light came from. There _might_ be a figure inside, something small and human and not just the imagination of a scholar who'd been thinking far too much about how many dead bodies might be buried down here. The light made it impossible to be sure.

Belle remembered another story they told children in the Pyramid, about a young woman who was driven out into the Night. Some tales said it was her wicked stepmother who drove her away. Some said she was led away by a man called the Hunter who had been possessed by a strange demon called the Wolf.

Her true love went after her and had many adventures. He met the hideous King of the Abhumans, who would have made him a prince and adopted him as his son if only he would let his true love die and marry an Abhuman princess in her place, a monster made of made of gold and steel. He escaped them only to meet a beast that breathed fire and tried to swallow him whole. Instead, he tricked it into eating a magic egg that took away its flame.

In the end, he found his true love. But, it was too late. She was already dead. Mourning, he had brought her back to the Pyramid. The Seven who guarded the gate had met him and carried her down to the shrine. As the hero kissed her one last time, the light from the _coffin_ had bathed them both, and she had come back to life. The wicked stepmother was punished, and all lived happily ever after.

It was a reminder, Belle supposed, of what happened to girls who went into the Night. Terrible as the Night might be, the hero had adventures and came back victorious (or they did some of the time). Girls just wound up dead.

 _No female ever._

She knelt down by the work of glass and iron. Everywhere, all around the tomb, were carved signs that meant the Word, symbol after symbol. Belle thought the Word silently to the figure that might or might not be inside the _coffin._ She told it, _I need to go. I don't know if it's right or wrong but I see no other way. Help me, if you can._

She held out the red flower Jefferson had given her.

She had placed it in a small, crystal sphere. There was a little water with a nutrient solution beneath it. She'd borrowed it from one of hydroponics lab. Her reading had suggested that might keep the blossom alive a little longer.

Belle didn't know what she expected, maybe a warm glow like the hero and his true love had been given, maybe a thundering curse for the laws she was about to break. She held the sphere right against the metal work, against something she thought might be called a _leaf_ if it had grown in a _garden._

The light from the _coffin_ became brighter, almost blinding, but Belle didn't look away. As it grew, she thought she heard a sound, like the pulsing of a heart.

What she saw then, it had to be—it _must_ be a trick of the light, dazzling her eyes.

The _leaf_ moved, curling over the sphere. The _leaf_ had a teardrop shape with a serrated edge, but it closed around the flower like a hand.

There was blood. It ran from every pointed edge along the leaf.

Or that's what she thought it was in the moment before the light grew too bright to see anything at all.

As quickly as it had come, the light dimmed. Belle found herself blinking, trying to clear her vision.

It took a few moments before Belle could make out the markings on the walls and the iron _vines_ of the _coffin._ There was no blood. Nothing had changed. Except the flower in her hand.

Looking down at it, Belle saw that one of the petals, lying at the edge, was no longer red. It was the bright, glittering color of gold.


	6. Jefferson's Journey

Madness.

As Jefferson limped up the last few steps to the light on the mountainside, he felt a moment of pure terror. This was it. This was when he found out if what he believed—what he remembered—were true or if he were truly mad—if he had risked everything, his life, his _daughter's_ life, on nothing more than a madman's fancy.

There were things Jefferson hadn't told Belle, things he would _never_ tell Belle or Grace or anyone.

Unless they escaped. Unless they were pulled free from this place, and he saw the real world again.

If there really were such a world, if he weren't insane.

He reached into his pack. At least, this time, he'd had the hat. He'd packed the few supplies he'd brought with him in it and around it, wondering the whole time what he would do if anyone, for any reason, thought to check the pack. There was no reason they should. It wasn't as if anyone in the Pyramid had anything to offer an enemy outside—anything besides their own flesh and blood or living soul.

But, if they had looked, if they had asked questions, if they had decided he was a madman who shouldn't be allowed out into the dark, then it was all for nothing.

The Pyramid would fall. His daughter would die.

He had been ready this time when the world fell apart. Or as ready as he could be. He had held onto Grace, held onto her so tight he was afraid of crushing her in his arms. But, he was even more terrified of what would become of her if he let go.

Then, as suddenly as all the curses before, they were here, in this hellhole. They had always been here. The Pyramid was ancient. It had stood a thousand times longer than any civilization on Earth (or in the Land Without Magic, so he still thought of it. As if it were real. As if it had ever existed).

Jefferson, alone of everyone there, knew it wasn't true. A few days, a few weeks, it had existed no longer. If it was this weak already, how much longer could it stand? How long before it failed completely?

There were things everyone in Storybrooke knew. There were other things that a watchful, patient pair of eyes could learn while other stayed blind.

Jefferson knew the Dark One's curse had broken free and found a new host, Emma. He also knew Emma had somehow found a way to share this with her paramour, Hook, who had dealt with it about as well as Jefferson would have expected.

He'd also watched through his glass as Hook summoned hooded figures with glowing eyes, figures who touched men and women and did _something_ to them, something that made even Gold—Rumplestiltskin himself—blanch with fear.

That was when the old wizard had sent Belle away.

That was almost enough to make Jefferson seize his daughter and race for the town line then and there. The only reason he didn't was that he wasn't the only one feeling the change in the wind. He saw the others who tried first. Gold may have given Belle his protection, but these poor fools transformed as soon as they stepped over the line.

He got out his hat and spun, but all it opened up to was darkness. Whatever was happening, they were already trapped by it.

He had been trying to think of something else he could do—anything else—when, the world came undone.

Or he was struck mad and believed it had.

He hadn't known what he expected to find at the end of this journey. Another Pyramid or fortress, perhaps a castle spun of light. He had only had his instincts as a Realm Jumper and whatever could be trusted in the maps and legends Belle helped him find. They told him this was the border, this was a place where the separation between worlds grew thin.

Besides, everyone in the Pyramid said don't go here. As you value your soul, don't go.

So, of course, Jefferson did.

What he found, when he finally reached the source of the seven lights was . . . light. Just light. A great circle of it, like window cut into the mountainside or sorcery spilling out of a magic mirror.

Light from another world, he thought, a world where light was as free and easy to come by as air. It bled through here where the lines dividing them were weak. Or so he prayed.

He knelt down in front of it, putting the hat on the ground. He tried to clear his mind, to martial his thoughts. It would be ironic to come so far, endure so much, and walk away convinced he was mad all because he couldn't keep his mind on his job and do the magic he must have done a thousand times before.

Not that it wouldn't be just as ironic to come this far, endure this much, and truly be mad.

On the bright side, being mad would mean Grace had more time. It meant the records were right about how slowly the barrier was failing and the darkness was closing in on them. It meant years—maybe even a lifetime—would pass before the end.

He should have left a message, some explanation for Belle. He'd come closer to trusting her with the truth than he had anyone else. Or maybe he should have told Grace. Oh, he'd spoken to her before he left. He'd told her he was doing this because he hoped he would learn something to keep her safe. He just hadn't told her what it was he was looking for.

She would misunderstand. In this world, they all would. Another irony. In this world, he was a watcher, a _Monstruwacan_ they called it. Unlike the Seven, the guards who watched the gate (always headed by at least one of the people Jefferson knew as the seven dwarves), the Monstruwacans first duty was to watch. They manned their posts at the top of the Pyramind and scoured the surrounding land, looking for dangers or coming threats.

When he'd first climbed up there, he'd found his telescope from Storybrooke waiting for him.

He'd watched. The whole land was filled with threats, with monsters. Some of them killed humans (and dwarves and fairies and anything else from their world). Some of them, if what everyone in the Pyramid "knew" could be trusted, devoured souls.

But, what intrigued Jefferson—no, what _terrified_ him—the most was the House of Silence. He saw the dark cloaked figures that came in and out of it, that walked along their road or the broader lands, ignoring all the dangers of the Night, and he recognized them.

These were the same figures Hook had summoned, the same creatures that had frightened even Gold.

He spun the hat with one hand, gripping his diskos with the other, summoning light. If he was right, he knew what magic the diskos was summoning. It might even be the same light making the glow in front of him.

If he weren't mad, if things were as he thought—he _hoped_ —then, he was at some kind of border to this land, something like the town line in Storybrooke. If he were right, he might be at a place touched by magic from beyond. If he were truly, _truly_ fortunate, it was magic from a world he knew, magic that might belong to someone who cared if the people on this side of that barrier—or one or two of them—lived or died.

The hat spun. For a moment, Jefferson only saw darkness.

 _Work, curse you, work,_ he thought.

No whirlpool of swirling light and shadow opened up, only the darkness that was more (or he thought it was more) than the darkness should be.

Except . . . he heard something. Wind? He looked around. Some creature in the shadows?

". . . ?"

He _felt_ the question, like the touch of wind against his cheek. It might be no more than his imagination. But, it was hope, and Jefferson grasped for it.

"Hello? Can you hear me? Who's there?"

Something, a murmur. He couldn't make it out but he thought he knew the voice.

"Emma?" He gripped the diskos harder, trying to summon more light. "Emma, can you hear me?"

There was silence for a long moment, then a different voice. He couldn't make out the words but he knew it. He was _certain_ he knew it.

"Rumplestiltskin?" Jefferson whispered.

Impossible. The wizard's power had been lost, broken. First Emma, then Hook had overshadowed him. He might have died when this new curse happened, but how could he have _escaped?_

 _He's the Dark One_.

With or without his power, he was the Dark One. Ancient, powerful, clever, the Deal-Maker who spun webs that entangled queens and shepherds alike.

If there really were a Dark One. If Jefferson weren't mad, imagining voices where there were none.

"Can you hear me? Can you understand what I'm saying?"

The hat still spun. Not knowing what else to do, he poured out his story, the Pyramid, the monsters, the failing barrier.

"Belle, Rumplestiltskin," Jefferson said. "Belle's here. She's alive." He paused, wishing he had something more to offer, a promise to save what Rumplestiltskin loved, to protect her. But, he couldn't even protect his own. All he could do was beg. "So's my daughter. Please, Rumplestiltskin. I will do anything—I know how dangerous those words are with you, and I'm still saying them—I will do _anything_ if you save her, save Grace. Please."

No answer.

The hat . . . he thought he saw a change in the hat, a glimmer of light. It wouldn't open a doorway, but. . . .

Jefferson reached in. A hand seized his, a hand with scales and fishhook claws. Images flashed through his mind. Belle here, at this place. A doorway opening. The old imp in all his dragon-hide glory.

 _I can save you,_ a familiar voice said in his mind. _I can save little girl. But, I need a thread. . . ._

Thread? "I don't understand. What thread?"

 _Something to sew our worlds together. Bring me Belle. Open the way, and I can free you._

He felt something pressed into his hand. Silk. The claw released him. Jefferson pulled out his hand and looked at what he'd been given, a silk bag embroidered in gold. In it was a golden spinning wheel—just the wheel, nothing more, but an exact replica of the one Jefferson had seen a thousand times in the imp's castle—and a rose.

Belle. He had to give these things to Belle. Somehow, she had to get here, to this place.

For all his power, Rumplestiltskin had barely been able to give him that message. He couldn't open the doorway between their worlds to do more than hand him these small gifts. Could he do what he promised? If Jefferson got Belle to this point, could the old imp really do what he'd said? Or would he take Belle and leave the rest of them to rot?

That was when Jefferson noticed the last item in the bag. It was small, just a scrap of paper. When he looked at it, his mind didn't shape the marks into letters or sounds. If asked, he could not have described the symbols written there.

But, their meaning seared into his mind. It was the one thing—the one scrap of magic that let them hold out against the darkness—the magic that lay behind the light of the diskos and the barrier of the Pyramid.

Somehow, Rumplestiltskin had done what no one else in this world could. It was a magic Jefferson had never even heard of in their own world and still didn't understand. But, Rumplestiltskin had written the Word.


	7. Reflections

Rumplestiltskin poured over books and conjured image after image in mirrors and crystal balls, in fire and water. Meanwhile, as the days passed, Miss Swan's main contribution was pacing back and forth, obviously thinking she'd waited long enough when she asked if he'd learned anything new every five minutes or so.

He'd dealt with impatient kings, queens, and megalomaniacs without losing his concentration. He could deal with Emma. Really, he could.

"Why can't you just open the doorway, the way you did back in Storybrooke?"

"Because, it's not just my blood that's needed," Rumplestiltskin said, trying to concentrate on his book and not look at her. It had been written by a madman who might (or might not) have seen the Underworld and described his journey using a mishmash of forgotten tongues and bad handwriting.

"What do you mean? It was all it took last time."

Rumplestiltskin put the book down. He didn't have _time_ to be giving magic lessons. But, it looked like there was no way around it. "Last time, we were in the land where I died. The door had also been opened and . . . consecrated, if you will. You robbed death without paying its toll, opening the way for a fury to pass through and claim one of the living."

"I didn't know that would happen!"

"I didn't say you did." _Though, you were warned of the price, weren't you? You just didn't know they could send someone to collect._ "Your intentions were good." _For whatever intentions are worth._ "But, the door was still opened. Then, four people worked together to pay that debt—four, the number of death—four living people who had each gave a quarter of their lives, one part in four, into the Underworld, tying both sides together."

Emma blanched. It seemed she hadn't thought this through before. "What did that do to them? Giving part of their lives away?"

"In the regular way of things, it could bind them to that world until . . . well, there are ways to sever the tie. Since they're currently in that world, I don't know that it much matters." Not quite true, but it wouldn't present a problem until they got them out.

"I couldn't let Robin die," Emma said.

"Yes, you could have," Rumplestiltskin told her. He was too tired for this argument, but Emma needed to understand. "If someone had handed you a magic knife and told you murdering someone with it would save Robin, would you have done it?"

He saw the angry clench of her jaw. She wanted to argue, to shout him down. Instead, she just grated out one word. "No."

"No, you wouldn't. That's the danger of dark magic. With light magic, the costs are always up front. You can draw on your own power till your strength is used up. You can draw on other sources till they're used up. If you can't offer what needs to be offered, the spell won't work. It's as simple as that.

"With dark magic, you can put off the reckoning. You wouldn't have murdered someone in cold blood to save Robin. But, if I'd handed you a magic knife and told you, if you promised to murder someone with it tomorrow, it would save Robin today, it would have been harder for you to turn down. If I told you the life must be offered in a year and a day, refusing would have been even harder. There are all sorts of things you could tell yourself. You'd find a way out of it. You'd find someone evil who deserved it. Or you'd make a new deal when the time came, promise a different payment for a different day."

"You've never saved a life?"

She had a wonderful sneer, Rumplestiltskin thought. Though whether it was there because she thought he hadn't saved one or because she though he had, he couldn't tell.

"I know loopholes, Miss Swan. You might have been able to use the life of the knight your father had just killed, if you'd been clever about it." It was always tricky when the price you were offering had, technically speaking, been paid before you offered it. "You could have closed up the wound because the sight of it put you off your dinner. You could have decided you wanted to collect the poison in Robin for your collection and magically pulled it out of him. Saving him would have just been a side effect—although even that still has a price.

"Which is all beside the point. We don't have four lives to open the doorway. We don't even know where the doorway would be in this world. That's assuming it wants to open for me. That place might just as soon not have me back, not yet."

"What are you talking about? Those dead guys didn't mind marking you. I saw it."

 _Those dead guys._ Not exactly the most impressive nickname for hordes of evil sorcerers returned from the grave and set on destroying as many worlds as they could sink their teeth into. Miss Swan liked to mock her enemies. He could hardly blame her, he did the same. But, he didn't ignore their strength when he did it. Of course, Miss Swan would probably point out she didn't ignore _her_ strength when she went up against him.

Dead guys. It was just a matter of scale.

"I wasn't the Dark One then," he said. "More importantly, now, I'm a _living_ Dark One with the power of all the Dark Ones who went before me. They'd just as soon not have me come to call." A Dark One who'd come closer to stopping the curse than any Dark One before him, even if a lot of that had been by accident.

"If you hadn't taken the power back—"

"We'd have been sucked into the Underworld with the rest."

"Killian—"

"Miss Swan, death doesn't break the curse. Not on this side, not on the other. And, for the Dark One, death isn't death. If the last Dark One dies without passing on the curse, he can be brought back. As I well know."

X

Emma stormed out. It didn't help that Gold had a point. There was a corner of her mind that knew she was being unfair and irrational. She might not always understand Gold, but it was a sure bet he wanted to rescue Belle and Henry as badly as she wanted to rescue everyone else along with them.

But, it was driving her insane. At least, Gold got to make himself useful. He conjured stuff and went through his books as if he had a clue what he was looking for. Emma couldn't even _read_ most of them. When she could, she couldn't make sense of them. As for spells, she could throw fireballs, rip out hearts, and steal memories with dream catchers. Unless the Underworld turned out to just be something someone had thought up, she was just going to continue sitting on the sidelines while the lives of everyone she knew were in danger.

She found her way back to the great hall. The spinning wheel was there, in its usual corner. Emma went over and spun the wheel, not that there was anything for it to spin. She should ask him to give her lessons. It might be something to do. Except, the time he used teaching her would be time he wasn't using to save Henry and her parents and everyone else.

Emma walked around the room, wondering what all of this stuff was. Tapestries, paintings, why did he have a sheepskin up on display anyway? And why was the one guy in that tapestry holding a _heart?_

She went over to the magic mirror and pulled the cloth of it. "Hey, Sidney, you in there? I don't suppose you made it back here?"

No answer. Not that she'd expected there to be.

Hard to believe Gold got along without mirrors. Even in Storybrooke, he hadn't exactly been underdressed. Here, how had he even managed to tie those lacey neck-cloth-thingies without strangling himself if he didn't have a mirror? Or what about those tight, leather pants? How could you wear pants like that and not check to see if your shirt was all wadded up where you'd tucked it in in back?

Except he wasn't Gold here, was he? Gold would have died before wearing those pants. Unless Belle asked him to. Maybe she had, not that Emma wanted to think about that.

Emma remembered hearing what David—her dad—had said about the changes the curse made. _We are both_.

 _More like Three Faces of Eve with a side of Norman Bates,_ Emma thought. _Or Mr. Hyde and Mr. Super-Hyde with claws, scales, and a big dose of hyperactivity._

Or that's what he'd been last time she'd been in the Enchanted Forest. This time around, he'd been acting like calm, reasonable, liquid-oxygen-for-blood Mr. Gold. Which was good. Emma felt like she knew Mr. Gold. She wasn't so sure about Rumplestiltskin.

Or, maybe, having had that same darkness crawling around in her head, she knew him too well.

Emma felt a chill. She glanced at the windows. They were pretty high up in the mountains here, and the weather had a way of changing without warning. But, it was still sunny outside.

It was the mirror that was frosting over. . . .

Emma reached out and touched it, not quite sure what was happening. "Sidney, is that you? Or . . . Elsa? Is this your idea of a phone call?"

As her fingers brushed against the glass, cold jolted through her. She saw darkness, a barren, empty land. Monsters crept across the landscape, killing and being killed. Red fire bled out of fissures in a dying earth—

 _Hello? Can you hear me? Who's there?_

The words echoed in her mind. The frost from the mirror was spreading out along her fingertips, stinging against her skin. Emma didn't dare pull away. "Rumplestiltskin? Rumplestiltskin, get down here! Something—" She stopped, cut off by the pain as the ice spread along her hands.

 _I'm not letting go,_ Emma told the mirror. _You can't make me._

Then, Rumplestiltskin's scaly hands closed over her wrists. He didn't pull her hands away, but the ice stopped climbing up her skin. He looked from her hands to the glass. His eyes narrowed.

"What's happening?"

"Jefferson," she gasped. "I heard Jefferson. I saw—" She gave a gasp as pain burned through her hands. Her knees shook.

"Hold on," Rumplestiltskin said, not sparing her a glance. "Jefferson, we're hear. What's going on? What can you tell us?"

Words came, blending with images. Emma saw a Pyramid rising against the wasteland, light glowing around it. She saw the faces of people she knew inside, her parents, Ruby, the dwarves—

 _Belle,_ Jefferson said. _Rumplestiltskin, Belle's here. So's my daughter. Please, Rumplestiltskin, I will do anything—_ Emma gasped. She didn't understand the imp, not really, and _she_ knew how dangerous those words were.

Maybe Jefferson heard her because he went on wryly, _I know how dangerous those words are with you, and I'm still saying them—I will do_ anything _if you save her. Save Grace. Please._

Rumplestiltskin looked as desperate as Jefferson sounded, but Emma could see him forcing himself to be calm, to think before he made any promises. "I can save you," he said slowly, mapping out possibilities Emma was sure she couldn't imagine. "I can save your little girl. But, I need a thread."

"You need a _what?_ " Emma said, pretty sure she felt an echoing surprise from Jefferson.

"Something to sew our worlds together," the wizard said. Something flashed through his eyes. Fear? "Bring me Belle. Open the way, and I can free you.

"Hold on," he told Emma. I'm going to have to let you go. It's going to hurt, but we need to keep this open."

Emma nodded, bracing herself, and—

She screamed. She could feel ice burning up through her bones, feeling them crack and splinter with the cold. "Hold on," Rumplestiltskin said. There was a puff of lavender smoke. She caught a glimpse of something in his hand, a sack of red and gold. Then, Rumplestiltskin plunged his own hands through the mirror, gritting his fangs. Did it hurt him, too? She hoped so. "I've almost got him," the dark wizard said. "Just a little longer—"

Cold, jagged knife-edges of it, cut through her mind, her thoughts. A part of her knew she must still be screaming. She could feel the pain in her throat, the pressure in her lungs, but pain blotted out the sound. It was cutting her to pieces—

X

Rumplestiltskin pulled Emma away from the mirror. As she collapsed against him, he kept his eyes on the glass. It was dark as lead, cold and still. But, at the same time, there was something, the sense of shadows moving in the stillness, flickers of movement in the dark.

He'd done it. Or some of it. The doorway hadn't closed. Not completely.

He turned his attention to Emma, conjuring warmth and healing. She tried to pull away, but he held on. The heat must feel like fire after the cold she'd just been through, as painful as the ice he was trying to rescue her from.

"Sorry, Miss Swan," he told her. "You know how dark magic feels about healing."

"W-what. . . ?"

"Jefferson. It seems we were not entirely alone in this. It takes more than a magic hat to make a realm-jumper. The Hatter's instincts led him to what we've been looking for." He waved a hand towards the mirror. "A weak place between the worlds."

Emma looked at the mirror then, just as quickly, looked away. From the yellow-green color of her face, he thought she was trying not to be sick all over his floor. So, her magic let her see more than his did. That . . . wasn't surprising. Unfortunately. "W-what happened?"

Her teeth were chattering. Rumplestiltskin helped her up and led her to a Victorian-style sofa that hadn't been there a moment before. He slipped into his lecturing voice as he settled her down on it. "The way between this world and that one isn't an easy one to open, not for the living. Mr. Jefferson needed to draw on power to open in. Your power. That's what it was draining from you."

"M-my p-power?"

Rumplestiltskin conjured a cloak and tucked it around her. "Despite what Queen Elsa's talent might lead you to believe, cold is the absence of energy. That's what was being taken from you. It makes sense. Your light magic against that world's dark magic. I was able to help but I had to funnel that power through you. When I let go. . . ."

"It h-hurt. I g-got that."

"Yes, I supposed you did. But . . . what did you see of that other world?" The Savior's ignorance of the most basic rules of magic—as he'd had good reason to be reminded these past few days—was appalling. But, she'd had useful insights in the past. The gods knew he could use one right now. Anything to tell him he was wrong. "Did you see the Pyramid? Or Jefferson's weapon?"

"P-pyramid? Yeah, it had l-light. All around it. But, I d-didn't see a-a weapon."

"Ah." That wasn't what he wanted to hear. Still. . . . "He had a staff. There was a . . . light at the end of it. He used it to help power his hat." Did she see the implications of that? "When he did, the cold hitting you grew worse."

"I d-don't un-understand."

No, of course she didn't. "Miss Swan, that staff fed on _your_ power. It was in another world—a world without light magic—but that's what powered it. The same power shields the Pyramid. If I understood Mr. Jefferson correctly, it's growing weaker."

Weaker. The people on the other side were safe for now. But, for how much longer?

He looked at Emma, already drained and weak. Had there been signs before this? She'd been angry, irritable, but her restlessness had seemed like nothing more than what he expected in a woman used to attacking problems head-on forced to do nothing but wait.

How much power could he feed her? Hers would resist his. The power he'd passed through her to open the portal had changed to light—or close enough to light to get the job done—but there were limits.

Even with his help, even using every trick he knew, how long before that makeshift protection spell he'd glimpsed on the other side failed and Belle—and everyone else—died?

Emma would die when that happened, he thought. There was no way around it. She would give every last drop of life and power she had to keep them alive. When that was gone, she would die along with them.

It was probably unwise to tell her that now. He kept to the simple facts. Or speculations.

And he hoped Miss Swan would find a way to disprove all of them.

"I think. . . . This is only a guess. But, the little Jefferson was able to tell us, it's as if the curse—the one that created Storybrooke—has been reshaped. Someone managed to grasp the last shreds of it, to reshape what was on the other side and what was left of the town into some kind of shelter, perhaps to give people memories and knowledge to survive there. At the same time, someone—" He frowned, thinking it over. "—It _might_ not be the same person. Or persons. The fairies use light magic. They're not innovative by nature, but necessity—and desperation—are the loving parents of invention. One of them _might_ have found a way to use your magic while the world was falling apart." It was more than he'd seen a fairy do in all his centuries of keeping a wary eye on them, but it _might_ have happened.

"But, you don't think so."

"No, but I could be wrong. What I _think_ is that someone with a touch of dark magic and a touch of light, someone desperate and acting on instinct, managed to save them. Not that it matters right now." He looked at the mirror.

Did she see who he meant? There was only one person it could be, one person linked to this curse—and the previous curse—by blood and magic.

"You told him to get Belle."

He nodded. _And I may have killed Belle by doing that._ "I did. Belle is . . . linked to me. Oaths, promises, they're another form of deals. Marriage is an oath, a deal shaped in life and blood. That place, that piece of the Underworld is shaped by the same rules that form my curse. It should—it _has to_ respect that." And, gods willing, it would respect the protections he'd given her.

And, if he were very, very lucky, they might be the means of saving them all.

If he were lucky. Well, why not? he thought bitterly. There was a first time for everything.

"The oaths Belle and I swore when we married . . . between that and what I gave Jefferson, I think I can draw her out. If she can get to the boundary. I've managed to prop it open. Enough to get her through. I hope."

"What about everyone else? Are you just going to leave them?"

Of course. She would ask that. Well, he'd given her reason enough. And it wasn't as if he knew the answer. "I . . . hope not. I think . . . maybe . . . by bringing through Belle, I think I can strengthen the door."

"You _think?_ That's not good enough, Gold!"

"It's the best I have, Miss Swan. We _might_ be able to strengthen the door. We _might_ be able to save everyone. Or we might not." He looked at her. He could see the exhaustion in her face.

It was only to be expected, he thought. This had been draining, but Emma's reserves were deeper than she knew.

They had to be.


	8. The Road

The Silent One had thought the hounds would be the first to attack the small human making its way across the barren land. The creepers, cannibal monsters that they were, would eat anything that came their way, but they never hunted in groups. Even when they swarmed some fallen creature, they were as likely to bite into each other as their prey. The few that had begun to crawl towards the fleeing figure scattered as the hounds raised up their cry.

It would not make it to the path before they reached it, the Silent One thought, feeling a touch of regret. There seemed to be something interesting about this one. Ah, well. It would watch this traveler's last moments. It had been interesting so far. While death rarely was, perhaps this one would prove the exception.

X

 _Hounds._

Belle ran for the road. Strange images floated through her mind. She thought of running through _trees_ and _snow_ with creatures called _wolves_ behind her. She thought of her strange dream of flowers and plants she had read of.

 _Wolfsbane. Moonwort._ Imaginary names. Somewhere, she had heard stories of them, how they could be used to drive off monsters like the ones pursuing her.

 _Yaoguai_ , Belle thought, as the hounds closed in on her. Like the hounds, they were fiery beasts with glowing eyes, but they had manes of flame and were called to life with dark magic.

No, the _yaoguai_ was a fairy tale, it didn't exist outside of storybooks . The things chasing her might have burning eyes, but they were real, they were **hounds.**

Belle saw the small, stony outcrop and headed towards it, scrambling up. She could make a stand here. Maybe her diskos alone would be enough to hurt them and drive them off. Hounds weren't like creepers, so the records said. They cared if their packmates were dying, maybe enough to save her life.

She'd expected this, she reminded herself. She'd _timed_ this.

She'd known she would have to run. Getting out the gate and past the guards had been hard enough. If she'd wasted any time at all, she couldn't guarantee they wouldn't come after her. Belle's only hope had been to put as much distance between herself and the Pyramid as quickly as possible.

That meant drawing attention. It meant she couldn't use any of the many tricks the adventurers who went out into the Night had learned to not attract the many things that saw them as prey.

Creepers, Abhumans, Ogres, Belle had read everything she could on the habits and ways of the monsters outside. If creepers caught her, they would simply tear her apart and eat her. If she were lucky, Abhumans would do the same. If she weren't lucky, well, there was a reason everyone's armor was made to hide a capsule of poison.

So, she waited for the time when the hounds would be out and running. Hounds she could handle, if the old books were right.

The stories said those long dead plants could drive off "demons that ran in a wolf's shape." Wolf. An old word. As far as any of the scholars had been able to make out, it meant something like a hound, the same way the light that lit the Pyramid was something like the long lost "day" that had once lit the sky.

But, the stories also said there was something else that might drive them off. Belle waited as the hounds came closer, one hand on her diskos, the other reaching into the pouch slung over her shoulder. She pulled out a handful of the silver dust and water crystals she'd brought, scattering them in a broad arc towards the hounds. It hung in the air like a cloud, slowly settling on the hounds below.

Belle summoned more power to the diskos, making it glow. The dust shone back with reflected light. The water crystals seemed to grow larger, changing from glittering sands to smooth droplets.

The crystals summoned the moisture out of the air, condensing it around them. Harmless—even life-giving—to humans. But, to the hounds, with their burning eyes and hearts of fire, it was deadly.

X

The Silent One watched the human defeat the hounds. It was . . . impressive. They ran off, howling in pain, their faces and hides bubbling like hot soup over the fire. It suspected more than one of them would die.

The human waited till they were gone. Then, it checked the area around its small perch before climbing down and continuing on its way.

Cautious and intelligent, the Silent One thought. It was too easy, when victory seemed clear, to be careless, to not look for other dangers that might still be waiting. It began to make its way to intercept the human as it came to the road.

X

Belle staggered up to The Road Where the Silent Ones Walk. She was not expecting to see a silent one waiting when she got there.

It wore a black, tattered cloak, ragged edges floating in a nonexistent breeze. Red eyes (she assumed they were eyes) glowed out of the shadows of its dark hood.

Belle scrambled up onto the path, holding her diskos between her and the creature. _The road is safe,_ Belle reminded herself. Records going back almost to the Age of Day said the Silent Ones never attacked when travelers were on the road. Not that they always needed to attack. She remembered the story of the Lost Boys, lured (so it was said) by a piping only they could hear. They had gone into the House of Silence and never come out again. They had walked along the road to get there.

The Silent One drew back a little. It seemed to be regarding her curiously. Did it know she was a woman? That mattered to the Abhumans. Did it matter to a Silent One? It was taller than her. If it were human, she would have guessed it was a man under that cape, though she couldn't tell for certain. Did such things matter to Silent Ones?

They stood a few moments, watching each other. Slowly, Belle began to back away, making her way down the road. The Silent One drifted after her (did it have feet? She'd always thought they did, watching them from the Pyramid, but it moved like a ghost).

Belle held her diskos tight, ready for battle, but she turned and looked forward. _The road is safe,_ she reminded herself. Safe from physical attack. If the Silent One tried to cast a spell on her, to lure her into their house. . . . She began reciting the Word in her mind, trying to concentrate on going forward.

X

The Silent One backed away. This human was still ready to fight. A memory drifted up, another human, a knife in its hand, ready to kill to protect its own. It did not remember details but it remembered its amusement at how that had turned out. The human had had no idea what it was getting into.

Still, this human interested it. It drifted along behind it, watching. The human continued to hold its weapon ready but it did something else as well. The Silent One felt a ripple of disturbance. The human's mind glowed. It was the same kind of light that guarded the Pyramid and powered the human's weapon. But, there was more to it. This felt alive in a way those hadn't.

What was this creature? The Silent One had thought it a fool or criminal of some sort, fleeing its own kind's retribution, however foolishly. But, that wasn't how it behaved. Its actions were careful and planned. Everything it did, every action suggested it was considering each move, weighing the risks and the benefits.

The meeting with the hounds had been deliberate, the Silent One realized. For whatever reason, this human had had to flee the Pyramid. It could not rely on stealth or the usual small defenses and distractions the Pyramid could make for one of their travelers. It knew it would have to run, a choice that was nearly certain suicide.

But, it had chosen a time and a place where it would face the hounds—and it had had a weapon that could defeat them, something no human before it had done.

Now, it summoned light into its mind, driving back any power a Silent One might have used to manipulate it. Not that the Silent One was trying to manipulate the human. The creature had interested it. It thought it might follow the human to at least the end of the road and see what else happened. It might even follow it further, rare as it was for them to leave their given territory. The Night was dull and this creature was interesting and. . . .

The Silent One paused, recognizing the feeling inside it.

 _Familiar._

This creature was _familiar._

It drifted along, silent as the grave in the creature's wake. Up ahead, it saw the gathering of its kind it had noticed before. But, they were clustered in a thick mass, blocking the road. The one who stood at their head—the Silent One knew this one only a little. It was young, as their kind counted age. New, that might be a better word. It radiated fury and hate.

If they did not move out of the way, the human might fight its way through—or it could try. Once it attacked, the neutrality of the road would be broken. The whole mass of them could swoop in and do as they pleased. If it went off the road. . . .

They were near the place, the place where no mercy need be shown. It was a law as old and strong as any the Silent Ones had.

Any being that set foot there—any being that wasn't a Silent One—died. There were no exceptions.


	9. Passing the Gauntlet

Belle looked at the figures gathering before her, their red eyes glowing. If they were eyes. No one, in all the history of the Pyramid, had ever seen a Silent Ones face and lived to tell. Belle suddenly imagined pulling one of those hoods back and seeing the head of a blind slug, tentacle-like stalks hanging above gaping mouths to draw in their prey.

She swallowed, her hand tightening on her diskos. This wasn't the time to let her imagination run wild. The dangers in front of her were bad enough. If she didn't concentrate on the present, it didn't matter what the Silent Ones' faces were like, she would be dead either way.

"What is this?" Belle said, trying to sound firm and brave. They might not speak, but the Silent Ones understood human language well enough. Or that's what the few who'd met them and lived to tell about it said. "This road has always been a refuge. Anyone who reaches it has safe passage in return for getting here alive. That's the _deal."_ She emphasized the word. Somewhere—she couldn't remember where—she'd read that about the Silent Ones: they valued bargains, deals. When they made agreements, they kept them.

It must be just a child's tale. How could mute demons make deals? But, when it was time to grasp at straws, you grasped at every one you could and held on tight. One hand on the diskos, she reached into her pouch, searching for what was left of the dust she'd thrown at the hounds. If it had worked on them, it might slow down the Silent Ones. Instead, her fingers brushed against the golden spinning wheel.

The metal should have been ice cold out here. Instead, it was warm against her touch.

 _Anger._

It hit her like a burning wall, making her gasp. She _felt_ it—and who it was coming from: the Silent One who stood at the front of the rest. He radiated a terrible, murderous fury.

She held the wheel tighter. Somehow, she could sense the others as well. Some shared the first Silent One's anger, though none of the rest burned so fiercely. Some were ambivalent. Others were bored. A few even seemed to feel guilty.

"A deal," Belle repeated slowly. "Isn't that what they say about you? You always keep your deals."

The sense of guilt grew stronger. A few turned aside and began to drift away.

But, the first one only became angrier. It stalked towards her. Its hunger—its _need_ to kill her, to rip the life from her—growing stronger with each inch.

 _No._

The Silent One who had trailed along behind her was suddenly standing between Belle and her enemy.

 _No._

She could _feel_ the force of that denial even if she didn't sense the word itself—even if she couldn't understand the rest of what was passing between them. It was an argument. She sensed that much. There was anger on both sides. The first one's fury never waned, but neither did the follower's resolution. This was _wrong,_ the follower seemed to be saying. What the angry one wanted was _wrong._

Some of the others began to move away. Belle thought they might even be . . . embarrassed? _Guilty?_ Could Silent Ones even _feel_ guilt? A path began to clear before Belle. The follower still stood between Belle and the angry one. But, she thought—she couldn't be sure—it seemed to move its head ever so slightly towards Belle and—maybe—give the faintest hint of a nod.

Slowly, Belle began to walk into the crowd of Silent Ones, her diskos still held high and bright, her other hand tightening around the gold wheel. She wondered if anyone from the Pyramid was watching through one of the telescopes and what they thought of the lunatic trotting right into an army of Silent Ones.

They stood aside and let her past. The emotions she'd felt from them began to die away. Soon, there was nothing left but a sense of calm watchfulness. It was a drained, empty feeling. Belle wondered if this was what it would feel like to be surrounded by ghosts. Only the first Silent One still boiled with anger. And the one who stopped him, she still felt something from him, too. Resolution. That was what it was.

She was almost to the end of the crowd when the first one's fury boiled over. She looked back and saw it pushing past the follower, coming at her. Its anger thundered against her, like the roar of a wild beast as it brought down its prey. Instinctively, Belle raised her diskos, striking out at her attacker.

She could sense the Silent One's pain as the light struck it. At the same time, the dead emptiness of the others' vanished. It was as if her diskos had struck each of them. Outrage, hot and churning with life, rose up all around her.

And the Silent Ones lunged for her.


	10. Creatures of Light and Darkness

Rumplestiltskin—it was harder to think of him as Gold when she saw him standing there in his scales and leather—had a pile of books and scrolls scattered over a table. He was pouring through one of them, a frown on his face, as Emma came in. Kicking some of the spun gold out of her way, Emma shoved the bread she'd brought under his nose.

"Here," she said. "Eat."

"Not now, Miss Swan," Rumplestiltskin said, moving away so he could continue reading.

"Even you need food, Gold."

"If I did, I'd have starved to death in that hole the Blue Fairy made for me."

Emma winced. She'd seen the prison Rumplestiltskin had been kept in. But, she didn't let Rumplestiltskin derail her. "Stop trying to change the subject. You could have left whenever you wanted. And I don't care if you need food or not. I need something to do. That means you can either eat what I bring or I can shove it down your ungrateful throat."

"If you need something to do, watch the mirrors. I've had difficulty focusing them. Tell me if you see anyone you recognize or anything that seems important."

"How am I supposed to know what's important? I don't know what anything over there is. Like that," she said, waving her hand at one of the mirrors. "That looks like a city." It did, too, a shadowy outline of what could have been dark buildings dotted with scattered lights.

"It is," Rumplestiltskin said. He frowned, putting the book down and looking over a scroll, then checking the book again. He grimaced.

"It is? The Dark Ones have a _city?_ "

"Hardly." Rumplestiltskin put the book down and picked up another. "The city is at the very edge of our . . . territory in the Underworld. Or the beginning of another. We could go there but. . . ." He looked up at the mirror, closing the book. "We called it the City of the Dead. It's empty. No one's there, except. . . ." Memories, like ghosts, seemed to pass through his eyes. "Things happen there. You see things out of the corner of your eye, lights flickering on or off, shadows that seem to move. You hear sounds. Or you think you do. They might be voices. Or wind."

"You said there wasn't any wind."

"There's not. But, there was no on in the city, either. When you turn around, when you look at the light or what should be casting the shadow, there's never anything there, nothing that shouldn't be. Sometimes. . . . There were times I thought I heard people. I ran into a diner, once, because. . . . It doesn't matter. There was no one there. But, there were plates laid out on the tables, as if they'd just been there. I remember a cup at the edge of the counter, as if it had just been put it down, the way you might if you turned to look who was running in the door. . . ."

The hair on the back of her neck stood up. "You never saw anyone?"

Gold—for that moment, he was Gold, human and not the mad demon she'd met a lifetime before—said nothing, just stared at the mirror.

". . . . Once," he whispered. "Only once. There are places there that are . . . familiar. The same. Except they're not. I . . . I saw an apartment once that—that was like Bae's. The one in New York. Another time . . . I saw my shop. It was in a row of stores I didn't recognize. But, it was the pawn shop, right down to the sign with my name on it. I went up to it. There was a street lamp behind me, but the shop was dark. I had to get close to see . . . too see if it was the same inside as out. There were reflections in the glass. I was there—I could see my face staring back at me. But, nothing else was the same. It wasn't the street I was standing in. It was a village. And my—and two women I'd known—I'd swear it was them—were walking down it.

"But, when I turned and looked, they were gone."

"Did they—were they dead? Dead in our world?"

"Oh, yes, centuries dead." He smiled bitterly. "Most people I know are." He looked at the shadows and lights in the glass. "They looked just the way they used to, smiling and laughing. They looked like they were discussing good news. . . ."

"But, they were gone when you looked."

"Yes."

"Did you ever. . . ." _Go back there, find out what was going on, know if they were ghosts or just something messing with you?_ ". . . . see them again?"

"Oh, no, I never saw them again. But . . . when I walked away, I—I went through a place they would have passed. I felt something brush against me, like cloth made from wool."

"They—they were having a good afterlife, then." No, that was stupid. She needed learn to think before letting sounds come out her mouth.

"They deserved one," Gold said. "So did Bae. I hope he found one."

Neal. Who'd given his life trying to save his father and given it again to save them. The same way Gold had. " _You_ deserved a good afterlife," Emma blurted out. Gold gave her a scathing look. "You _did_ ," Emma insisted. "You died saving the town. None of us could have stopped Pan. You'd earned it."

"I died saving my family. Or trying to. The rest of you were . . . incidental."

"You still deserved better. Why didn't you get it?"

He laughed at that. "You're asking _me_ to explain, Miss Swan?"

"You were there, weren't you?"

"And you were in the system as a child. Did that give you the power to understand why life in it wasn't always fair?" He looked at his mirrors. "That world . . . it may be Limbo, it may be Purgatory. It may just be a little pocket of space where the souls of Dark Ones go when we die. I don't know. I know that . . . the things we did follow us into that life."

"What do you mean?"

"There are . . . shadows. Nightmares. When they catch you, you . . . experience things. If you slaughtered a kingdom, you will live through the pain and suffering of each soul who died. And when you've suffered for all of them, it will start over again. And again."

Emma stared at him. "You—?" But, she didn't finish it. "No," she said. " _No._ I know you, Gold. You've done some crappy stuff. But, you wouldn't do that."

"Wouldn't I?"

She rolled her eyes. "You'd come out and say it if you had, not just throw it back as a question."

"You think I don't enjoy fencing with words?"

"I think you know I can tell if you're lying. You haven't wiped out any kingdoms."

". . . . no," he admitted reluctantly. Why reluctantly? Because what happened would have made more sense if he had? "But . . . other Dark Ones did. And. . . ." he searched for words, ending in a grimace. "The last Dark One—the latest in the long line, living or dead—is . . . linked to the others. They can . . . pass their nightmares to you. If they can catch you." His eyes were dark and closed as he studied the world in the mirrors.

Emma stared at him. "Then, Killian. . . ?"

"Hook isn't the last. I am. He's safe enough. But, I don't know if the people from Storybrooke are."

"What do you mean? You said the Dark Ones can't trade places with them. They're already in the Underworld."

"No, they can't. That doesn't mean they can't do other things. I've been thinking about it, and there's a variation they could do on Charon's mark. If they'd been able to trade places with the living, it stands to reason the person they trapped would suffer they're nightmares, doesn't it?"

"It does?"

"I think so. It doesn't make that much sense to come back to this world if you can't get away from them. There are rules in that world, and the barrier—and your magic—is protecting people. For now. When it fails . . . well, there are rules. But, they're Dark Ones. They'll know how to get people to do what they want."

"You mean trick them into making deals?"

"Not exactly. They can't speak to the living, not unless it's someone touched by the curse—they _might_ be able to talk to you, so be careful. If anyone steps into the House of Silence—see it there? That's what Belle calls it—they can do whatever they want to them. Or see that?" He pointed to a dark plain near a small road. "That's the Killing Ground. Only they'll do worse than killing to anyone who goes there. Believe me, I—I know."

Emma heard what he didn't say: _I remember._

She thought of the many names she'd seen on the dagger. How many people were in Storybrooke? "How many will they use? How many . . . I mean, do they keep the extras or—or send them away, or—How does it work? What will they do to them?"

"I don't know. I told you, I couldn't die. I think—I hope—our people can. If they're lucky, their souls will move on. If they're not lucky . . . I don't know. And, I don't know if they can spread their nightmares over a group or if one victim at a time is all they can handle.

"Although, it might be better than I think. It won't be all of them. Even when I was there, there were several who just let me be. It was only the angry, bitter ones I had to deal with, the ones who thought it wasn't _fair._ " He twisted the word with scorn. "The others . . . some don't care. Some . . . seem to accept it. There was even one. . . ." Gold hesitated. "I . . . don't know what happens to the other dead—the normal, uncursed dead. I don't know what happens to _my_ kind of dead, the Dark Ones, beyond our little Purgatory. But, there was one of us. He—he was ready to face what was beyond it. Whether heaven or hell was waiting for him on the other side, he didn't care. He just—he was ready to make peace with the ones he'd harmed."

"What happened to him?"

"I don't know. I didn't see him among the dead Hook summoned. I haven't seen him in the mirrors. Maybe he found a way out of that place. Maybe the townsfolk will, too." The brief hope died in his eyes. "If not. . . . You've seen the monsters of that world, Miss Swan. They're vermin to the Dark Ones, creatures that have crept in or were part of that place when it became ours, pests that weren't worth the trouble of exterminating. They can kill people just as easily. And worse than kill."

She thought of Henry, her parents, everyone she knew. Gold, she was sure, was thinking of Belle.

"What about you?" Emma asked. "You said that one guy might have found a way out. Did you try to leave?"

His face grew more closed. "I couldn't, Miss Swan. I told you, I was the last. That bound me. There wasn't any other way out."

"And now?"

"Now, I'm trying very hard to stay alive. I don't intend to—" He stopped, eyes widening in fear. "Belle," he said. "There's Belle."


	11. Nightmares and Dreams

In world after world Rumplestiltskin had seen, mortals studied the stars, searching for the secrets of eternity. They named the planets for the forces they saw trailing in their wake: Iron Mars, lord of war; Venus, daughter of fire and passion; swift Mercury; and lordly Jupiter, implacable king. In their movements, the wise and the mad read the secrets of fate and time.

The skies of the Underworld were an empty slate, dark and meaningless, giving neither light nor hope. Rumplestiltskin watched as Belle ran over the barren ground. The earth was red clay. Even if there had been light enough for seeds to grow, the heavy soil would have killed them, smothering new life before it could begin. There was nothing life-giving or nurturing in this world, just different masks of death.

He saw the hounds pursuing her, saw Belle cornered on the rocky perch she'd taken shelter on, her diskos gripped in her hand, already summoning the light that was a weapon in its own right in that world. Did Miss Swan feel it drawing on her? He spared a glance for her. She looked pale and tense but not weakened. So far, she was bearing up.

When she fell, the Pyramid would fall with her.

Belle should there, he thought. She should be safe behind what little shelter this nightmare offered, not running head first into the jaws of death. He only needed to find a way back into that realm—besides the way everyone knew. Death would only trap him there and lay him powerless at his old companions' feet.

But, he'd already seen Miss Swan come close to failing. Without his help, their brief contact with Jefferson would have been too much for her. The barrier of light magic around the Pyramid could have vanished, then and there.

Maybe. Perhaps. He told himself that Miss Swan was stronger than she knew. And she was only one part of the power protecting the people of Storybrooke. There was still time, still a chance.

But, all of those chances would dwindle away to nothing if someone didn't get to the small doorway Jefferson had helped them make and let them pry it open entirely.

Belle. At the time, talking to Jefferson, all Rumplestiltskin could think of was Belle. _Get Belle to me. I will save you all. But, get me Belle._

Madness. Impulse. Worst of all, even after days to think over the possibilities, he didn't have a better answer. The wolf girl was a guard in that world, bound by honor to defend it. She would not abandon her place to run out into the wasteland. The dwarves stood watch over the gates. None of them would abandon their posts or listen to Jefferson's ravings. None of them, if they heard Rumplestiltskin whispering to them through the night, would have broken all the Pyramid's laws to come to him.

And, even if they had, none of them were the wife of the Dark One, bound to him and his power by love and oaths. He might curse himself for letting Belle chain herself to a monster, but her light lived in his heart, side by side with the darkness inside him. He thought—he hoped—he could pull her through. He didn't know if he could pull through any others.

He could save her.

And, if he could save her, then he could save the others.

Or so he hoped.

She just needed to stay alive long enough for him to do it.

Belle reached into her pouch and scattered the dust. It looked like a cheap trick from a children's game, scattering cheap sparkles and calling it magic.

But, this was silver and a small pinch of light magic, a mix of dust that could summon clean water out of the air.

Belle, trapped by the rules—or what she thought were the rules—of this world, thought of it as science. She watched the hound with the tense face of a woman who believed in the logic of what she had done and only hoped she had gotten it right. She didn't know that she had pitched light against darkness. The only question was which was stronger.

The hounds' skin boiled, twisting in a way true flesh couldn't, like simmering mud. The ones who could howled in pain before scattering away from her.

It was the one virtue of the hounds. They were a pack. Facing too many injuries to their fellows, they would retreat to lick their wounds. Not like the creepers, mindless killers who knew nothing but selfish, cannibalizing hunger.

Belle moved on, making her way to the small safety the road offered.

The Silent Ones. That was the name Belle gave his erstwhile brethren. For all he knew, it might be the name they gave themselves. They had been weakened at the end, their power draining into him. The magic that had made the Pyramid, that cobbled together knowledge of how to survive in this world and a history that told the people how to apply it, may have caught the Dark Ones in its net, as well. Even if the spell had only reshaped fragments of their memories, perhaps they had forgotten their terrible, jealous hatred of the living.

Either way, the road was safe. This world was part and parcel of the curse, a physical reflection of it. There were rules, just as there had been in their old world, laws and bargains that allowed mortals to walk a ways with the Dark One—or the Dark Ones—and survive. This road was the manifestation of that.

But, Rumplestiltskin had been the Dark One long enough to know how frail that safety could be, even for those he'd meant to keep safe—for those he would have died rather than endanger. The ones there had no such concerns.

There was a Dark One walking behind her. Belle didn't trust it (good for her) but she kept going. The Dark One shadowing behind her seemed more curious than anything else, like a well-fed dog that had caught a scent it didn't know. Predator, prey, plant, it didn't care. It only wanted to know the answer.

It. He.

 _Zoso._

Rumplestiltskin tensed. Zoso was the only Dark One he'd spoken to before being cursed. Zoso had never been one of the ones who pursued him in the dead lands, cursing him for ruining all their chances at ever being alive again and forcing nightmares down his throat. Everything he knew of Zoso was from that brief meeting when he was a mortal man. And, then, he wasn't.

He remembered that moment of recognition as Zoso became the man he had been, grinning a mad smile, one Rumplestiltskin would come to know only too well in years to come. It had meant nothing to him then.

 _You told me to kill you._

The smile began to fade. _My life was such a burden,_ Zoso said, human grief and weariness washing over him _._ He gave Rumplestiltskin a final curse—or a warning. _You'll see. . . . I know how to recognize a desperate soul._

A desperate soul. Was that what he say in Belle? Was that why he trailed behind her?

 _My life was such a burden._

Rumplestiltskin had never felt that. He wanted to live. He knew the gambles he had taken and the prices he had paid to stay alive, time and again.

But, more than that, he knew there were people he wanted to live. Belle. Bae. Henry. There were others that he might not die for but he had inconvenienced himself—sometimes considerably—to keep them breathing.

And there were people he . . . he simply hadn't let die. Children he'd led home from battle. Wounded and sick he'd healed.

His magic demanded its price, but he'd learned to work his way around it, tricky as some of those ways might be.

None of them were any good to Belle right now.

Zoso followed her, curious dog that he was. Belle walked on. Dark Ones gathered in the road, blocking her.

Belle spoke to them. Something—memories, instinct, fragments of knowledge from this new curse—let her use the only arguments Dark Ones could be trusted to listen to.

 _A deal,_ she told them. _The road is safe passage. That's the_ **deal**.

Her hand brushed against the golden wheel he'd been able to give to Jefferson. He'd done what he could to put power into it, to make it a link between the worlds.

Just as he had when he was there, trapped with him, Rumplestiltskin could _feel_ the other Dark Ones. Boredom, curiosity, hate, they flowed through him. It was the same link that allowed them to make him endure their purgatories in their place. Now, he could only hope it was helping Belle, warning her of the danger all around her.

He'd managed to communicate with her using the wheel as a focus but didn't dare try it now. It took concentration from both of them to do that, concentration Belle couldn't spare if she wanted to walk out of there alive. Worse, it might let the others sense him, the one thing they hated more than any living soul.

For a moment, he thought Belle would safely win through, but one of the Dark Ones attacked. Rumplestiltskin recognized him, the anger, the burning need for _revenge_ in his heart; and this Dark One had recognized Belle. His was a freshly dead soul, one that still burned and chaffed under all earthly resentments, angry at his loss of life, jealousy of those who still had it—but, his fury was strongest for Rumplestiltskin, for the Dark One who'd survived and won back his power when this one had lost it all.

Hook. This Dark One was Hook, and there was no one he wanted revenge on more than Rumplestiltskin. He also knew what would hurt Rumplestiltskin more than anything else, going after the ones he loved.

X

Belle held up her diskos, summoning light. Some of the Silent Ones flinched and slowed, but not the one that burned with hate. He bore down on her, and—

Images exploded in her mind, memories that weren't her own.

 _She was only cabin boy but already proud of what she'd learned. She had memorized more than half the tables for figuring the position of the ship and could do calculations in her head faster than men twice her age did with pen and paper. She'd been proud of her skill with a sword, even though she knew it would be years before she could hold her own with grown men, like the captain._

 _But, that had been before their ship was attacked by the Jolly Roger. The pirate ship flew the red flag and gave no quarter to enemies. She made use of her small size, darting between the fighting men till she reached the keg of gunpowder. The pirate ship was right alongside theirs, close enough that even she could throw it across. All she had to do was light the fuse, and—_

" _Well, aren't you a clever lad?"_

 _A hand grabbed her by the collar, yanking her back. She saw a metal hook shine in the sunlight as it bore down on her throat._

" _I've no use for clever lads."_

 _Pain burned along her throat. She couldn't breathe. The world blurred and began to fade, but she was still alive as the hook-handed man shoved over the side of the ship into the waters below. The raw wound in her neck hurt like a hot iron as it met salt water. In those last moments as she struggled for air, she saw the red stained waters around her and the bodies of dead men being torn apart by sharks, drawn in by the smell of blood and meat. She saw one of the fins turn, speeding towards her—_

Belle gasped, managing to break free from the Silent One. What _was_ that? It was like a dream turned to nightmare, a world drenched in light and water but where men fought—fought and _killed_ each other, where they tossed their victims to monsters who devoured them.

A dream, she thought, an illusion. There were stories of ancient conflicts, but those were vague rumors implied in the very oldest texts from the days before the Pyramid. Creepers, hounds, Silent Ones, those were the things humans feared, not each other.

She tried to back away from the Silent Ones, keeping her diskos between her and them, but—

 _The village burned. She heard the screams of the people trapped inside the houses, begging for help, for mercy. Her own screams joined them._

 _She saw a woman, cloaked and hooded, a dagger clasped in her hand. "Dark One!" she shouted. "What are you doing? Stop this! Let them go!"_

 _The woman laughed. "I warned you, didn't I? All magic comes with a price. This is just the one you have to pay—"_

Something seized her, pulling her back and—

 _There was a battlefield. Thousands lay dead around her. But, somehow, she was still alive—_

A different touch, and then—

 _She looked down on the dead bodies of her children—_

A shadow pushed the other aside. Burning eyes met hers—

 _The cage was woven of razor sharp thorns. Her hands were a raw, bleeding ruin from her efforts to break them. The witch, satisfied her oven was hot, was coming to get her out—_

Belle was shoved aside. She collapsed on the ground, gasping for breath. A Silent One stood between her and the others. If they had made sounds, she imagined that one would be growling, just like a guard dog from the ancient tales.

 _It can't hold them for long_ , Belle thought. There were dozens of them and only one—what was he? Defender? Protector? Or just a Silent One who didn't want to share?

Using her diskos as a staff, she pulled herself up, trying to ignore how the world lurched unsteadily around her. She reached into her pouch, trying to think what she could use. The gold wheel? That had let her feel what the creatures felt, but it hadn't done much else. The dust, what was left of it, might do some good. Or it might not. Her fingers closed around the crystal sphere where she had placed the rose. Belle pulled it out.

 _The Word,_ a voice said silently. _The Word. Say it._

Belle whispered it.

Light erupted from the sphere.

X

Inside the Dark Castle, Emma Swan screamed.


	12. Night Crossing

**Note:** Sorry for the delay. This chapter didn't want to be written for some reason. I will need to look over it later to correct errors and tidy it up. But, if I don't post it now, I think I'll wind up looking it over again and scrapping the whole thing-again. Feel free to let me know of any errors so I can fix them.

X

 _Light._

Searing, burning light.

The Silent Ones scattered before it, fear and pain driving them away. Even the Youngest, the one whose anger had burned against the human, fled. For the moment.

Only one hesitated. The light was agony, but the one who had watched the human face the hounds and make her way to the road recognized it. This was the same light that shielded the Pyramid. In the moment before it turned and fled, it turned towards the fortress and saw the light around it flicker and dim.

It was just for a moment, scarcely the space of a breath. Then, the light returned. It was the same moment that the light bursting from the flower in the human's hand died away.

There was something acrid in the air, like the smell of fire and ash. The Silent One recognized it: Fear. For that brief moment, the Pyramid had trembled in terror. The scent of it drifted through the Night. The others of its kind, driven by their own panic, might not have noticed; but others would, like hungry beasts scenting blood.

They would be coming. And the Silent Ones would follow. If— _when_ the barrier fell, they would fall on the small band of mortals and feast.

Those were not the mortals, however, that interested this Silent One. It turned its attention to the one who had attacked them, the one who had nearly brought down the only protection its kind had. The figure was running as fast as it could down the Silent Ones' road.

Behind it, other Silent Ones were already beginning to recover and follow.

X

Belle ran.

The light had scattered the Silent Ones, but they were already starting to regroup.

Why? Everything— _everything_ —she had read, every record, every legend—they _all_ said the Silent Ones left travelers on this road alone. It was an unquestioned fact.

But, the one who had come at her, she had felt its hate—hatred for _her_ , personally. As if it knew her.

And the images, the nightmares that had flooded her as the Silent Ones came close, what were they? They felt like—like _memories._

No. Not possible. The age of light was over and, even when light had ruled the sky, the things she'd seen—the things she'd experienced—people could never have done that.

Could they?

Belle shoved those thoughts aside. She knew now what would happen if the Silent Ones caught her. The records had never been clear _how_ the Silent Ones killed.

 _The Hall of Scholars will be so happy,_ Belle thought. _If I live to tell them._

Her breath was coming in ragged gasps, scraping across her raw throat. _Keep running,_ she told herself.

Her lungs begged for air. Her legs burned. But, she didn't let herself slow down, not even to look behind her and see how close her pursuers were, not till she tripped in the darkness and tumbled blindly into a small pit.

The ground reminded her of her dream. It was softer than ground should be but slicker than the ground in her dream, smearing along her armor where she'd fallen. Belle pulled herself up. Her legs protested, and she wasn't sure whether or not they'd win the argument and buckle under her. She was still gasping for air, each breath burning red and raw. The pain meant nothing to her lungs as they continued pumping like a bellows. She brought up the diskos but she held it low, keeping it below the wall of earth behind her, and only summoned a dim mist of light. If the Silent Ones didn't know where she was, there was no reason to shine a beacon and tell them.

She realized there was a strong smell of sulphur in the air. She must have been too panicked to notice it before. Now, it hit her in all its rotting glory. Not that it slowed her breathing any. She just wished that it would.

A brine pit, that's what the explorers called these; not that there was much brine. They were points where chemicals—sometimes even including water—broke near the surface. By the diskos' dim light, she saw things crawling around in the muck, yellow crabs, the largest no bigger than a couple inches across. They crawled around in the mire. Several, drawn by the commotion she'd made falling in, were already crawling onto her feet. They bit at her armor and tried to dig in with their claws, or tried to. Her armor was more than strong enough to hold off a small horde of crabs. All the same, she kicked them off. She imagined them swarming her over her, bringing her down with sheer weight and numbers.;Creepers would do it. So would the thing that had attacked her as a child in the Pyramid.

But, the crabs scuttled off, heading further into the muck. Whatever they were, they knew when to cut their losses.

Belle got out her canteen and made sure it was operating properly. It worked with the same crystals she'd thrown at the hounds, pulling water out of the air. She drank thirstily. Then, she got out a survival tablet. They were funny, tiny things. A single pill was supposed to work as a full meal, with all the nutrients she needed to keep going for a half a day. They were difficult, costly things to make—especially now the Pyramid was failing. Belle conscience nipped at her for how many she had stolen, enough to survive nearly half a year. She looked at the crabs, wondering if they were poisonous and if she would be reduced to finding out before this was over.

Probably not. She'd faced death twice today. At this rate, she'd be dead long before she ran out of food.

She took a second pill, one that numbed her stomach. There were fewer of these. They would help her stomach adjust to being empty all the time, but that shouldn't take too many days.

Breathing easier, she packed up her supplies and peered over the edge of the pit. She didn't see any red eyes or any other sign of the Silent Ones. It was time to get moving again.

She pulled out the flower. To Belle's surprise, it spun in its crystal sphere. Then, it stopped. The single, gold petal seemed almost like an arrow, as if it were pointing the way.

Belle reached into the pouch and pulled out golden wheel. She thought the Word and tried to call out into the Night.

 _Hello? Can you hear me?_

 _Belle?_ The Other thought back to her, tagging on the Word almost as an afterthought. _Are you all right? The Da—_ Belle had the oddest feeling, as if a thought had suddenly been cut off. _The Silent Ones,_ the voice said. _They didn't hurt you, did they?_

 _How do you know about the Silent Ones?_ Belle asked.

 _I know,_ the voice answered. _I've made . . . windows. Of a sort. They let me see where you are. Sometimes. And I know a great deal about the Silent Ones._

 _Belle, you mustn't use the flower against them, not if you have any other choice. It uses light. But, it draws on the Pyramid. They can't spare it._

 _What?_ Jefferson, Ruby, Leroy—dozens of faces flashed through Belle's mind. _Are they all right? You_ **told** _me to do it!_

 _Me?_ The voice was startled. _Belle, I never spoke to you._

 _But—_ Belle rethought what had happened. She'd pulled out the flower. She'd called for help, but the voice that answered . . . it was different than the one speaking to her now.

 _The Word,_ she said. _I didn't say the Word to it. And it didn't say it to me._ The simple test that every child was taught, the one way to tell humans from their predators. _What happened? What did I do to the Pyramid?_

 _They lived,_ the voice assured her. _The barrier flickered for a moment. Nothing more. The defenses held. They're safe. But, don't call on that power again. Not unless you have to._

 _The flower,_ Belle asked. _What is it? Before I left, I took it to the Tomb of the Sleeping Prince._ Quickly, she tried to send the images of what had happened in the tomb. _It . . . changed it. For the better, I thought. It—it's pointing the way I should go._ Was it lying to her? She didn't need it, she thought. Belle had planned out her route before she knew the flower would do that.

But . . . it had given her a moment of hope to see it do that, to feel something was helping her on her way.

 _If it was the sleeping prince,_ the voice said slowly, _then, yes, it means to help you. It meant to help you when the Da—when the Silent Ones attacked. But, be careful. There are some things that—that_ **mean** _well but don't consider the cost._

 _You said you know about the Silent Ones,_ Belle said. _Why did they attack? All the records—everything we know about them—says the road is safe. And—and what was it they did to me? I—I felt images—nightmares—They were terrible. They_ **couldn't** _be real. But—but, they felt as though they were._

 _Images?_ The voice asked. _They did_ **that** _to you?_ Belle thought she felt anger, as fierce as the anger of the Silent One who had tried to kill her on the road.

 _They're cursed,_ the voice told her. _Some of them accept it. They live through nightmares of the evil they did._

 _You don't mean—you can't mean those—those images were real._ No, Belle wouldn't let herself believe that. It was too terrible even to imagine.

The voice hesitated. _Nightmares are not always literal truth,_ it told her. _But . . . the ones they harmed would recognize them. Under certain circumstances, they can make others suffer in their place. The Place Where the Silent Ones Kill, if they had caught you there, they would have tortured you with nightmares till you died or were driven mad._

 _But, they attacked me on the road. Why? And one of them—it seemed as if it knew me. How is that possible?_

 _He—_

 _He?_ Belle interrupted.

 _The word applies to some of them,_ the voice said dryly. _He would have claimed he hadn't attacked you, that threatening moves aren't the same as an attack. As for why he hated you, I think you're like someone he knew before._ The voice paused. _There are those the Silent Ones hate, those who've . . . escaped their fate. I . . . believe you reminded him of a victim who got away._

Belle thought of the road she'd already left behind her and the long way she still had to go. _Will he come after me? Will the others?_

 _. . . . I don't know,_ the voice admitted. _I'll try to help you, if I can. I . . . may have some power against them. Even here. Or I may not. Let the rose guide you back to me. Then, I can keep you safe. I can keep you all safe._

Wearily, Belle got up. She would have to get moving again. With luck, she might find a better place to spend the night. Carefully, she put the wheel pack into her pouch.

She glanced back at the crabs and their muck hole before dimming the diskos. She would be safer making her way in the dark for a while.

That was how she saw the shadow crawling over the dark ground. It paused a few feet from her. She saw it brush against a crab. The creature froze then, slowly, crumpled to dust.

The shadow looked up at her with the red, glowing eyes of a Silent One.


	13. Silence and Fear

Belle held up the diskos, summoning more light and trying not to look at the dust that had been the small crab moments before. With her other hand, she held up the gold wheel the same way she had held up the flower. Her hands itched to grab the small globe, but she thought of the Barrier around the Pyramid, thought of its light flickering and dying. _I don't dare. Not again._

The Silent One didn't react as she brought up the weapon, but it seemed to flinch when she held up the wheel. She gripped it tighter. The same thing was happening that had happened on the road. Somehow, she felt what the Silent One seemed to be feeling.

Caution. Curiosity _. Fear._

Fear of the gold object in her hand.

 _Why?_ Belle tried to send the thought to it the way she had sent it to the voice that had set her on this quest, testing the link. She didn't send the Word. The Silent One might not be attacking (yet), but she knew better than to do that.

The Silent One seemed to cock its head curiously, trying—and failing—to decipher what she had said.

"Why?" Belle whispered, afraid to make too much noise—although what there was left to fear when a Silent One stood only a few feet away was hard to imagine.

No, it wasn't. More Silent Ones. The ones who were still out there, who hadn't followed this one into the pit. That would be worse.

She tried to reach out with whatever sixth sense it was the wheel gave her. Yes, she could feel them, more Silent Ones out there. But, not close, she thought. She hoped. There was also none of the clear, focused anger she had felt before the first attack.

"Why are you afraid?" she asked. _What do Silent Ones fear?_

The Silent One lifted a shroud-covered hand ( _did they have hands?_ ) and gestured towards the gold wheel.

Belle focused, trying to send the thought to the Voice, hoping it could explain. _The Silent One is afraid of the wheel._

There was silence, and she wondered if she'd been heard. Then, the reply came.

 _No._

 _He's afraid of me._

Belle didn't understand. The Silent Ones feared _nothing_. In all the ages the Monstruwacans had kept watch on the land outside the Pyramid, it was the other creatures that fled before the Silent Ones or were driven back when they interfered. Humans, now and again, using the light of the diskos and the power of the Word, had held them off long enough to escape, but that was all. The world beyond the Barrier belonged to them.

Belle tried to form a question, to make sense of what she'd been told, when the Silent One stiffened, looking behind Belle. Something—the _attention_ —of the Silent Ones had sharpened, like the hounds when they caught her scent. She didn't think they knew where she was, but something was drawing them. They were coming.

Belle moved, trying to take up a more defensive position. The other Silent Ones would come from behind her. Or she thought they would. Of course, this one had come from in front of her. As if he'd wanted to see her coming. As if . . . he were trying not to frighten her?

 _None of this makes sense._

Belle tried to think of a plan. She didn't dare use the flower. She couldn't fight this many of them off with the diskos. If she tried to climb out of the pit and make a break for it, they'd see her at once—and she didn't think she had the strength to outrun them again. If she were very, very lucky and stayed very, very still, they _might_ pass her by, not looking too closely into this particular pit.

If she weren't lucky. . . . Belle tightened her grip on the wheel. She tried to clear her mind, not sure if she wanted to ask the question, _How afraid of you are they?_ Because, she couldn't imagine anything that could drive off an army of Silent Ones.

And . . . if it could. . . . Whoever— _whatever—_ it was she'd spoken to had been able to say the Word. Nothing that was an enemy of humans was supposed to be able to do that.

There was also nothing Silent Ones were supposed to fear.

Belle hesitated, wondering if she were summoning something even worse than the Silent Ones down on her people.

The Barrier was failing. What choice did she have?

 _There is always a choice. We are the ones who decide our fate. No matter how dark that fate may be._

She gripped the wheel, sending a different message. _Can you help-?_

She had not finished the thought before the Silent One beside her lunged, reaching out with its shadow-hands for the wheel. As it touched her, the ground beneath her feet caved in. In an avalanche of mud and dirt, Belle and the Silent One tumbled into the dark.

X

The Silent One had approached the human cautiously, trying not to startle it. The light the human had summoned burned, but the Silent One had recovered more quickly than the others.

 _This was wrong,_ it thought,

They all had nightmares. It was the curse of their kind. The worst of its own were the ones where children died (children, such a strange concept. The Silent Ones were all the same, all ageless. Some older because they knew they had walked these lands before the other, younger ones had joined them. But, they were never _children._ Only in the world of dreams could there be such things. Only in the world of dreams could the Silent One feel their suffering and know it had no power to stop it.

 _My life had become such a burden._ The words and the choice that came from them echoed in its memories.

It dreamt of a knife, a knife it knew had had a name carved into the blade. In the way of nightmares, it could never read that writing yet it knew it was a name, a name that belonged to the red embers in a dying heart. When those embers died, when that heart had turned to black, the writing would fade with it. The being that had held that name would be gone—the blade, which somehow enslaved the creature that name belonged to, would be powerless to hold its servant in check. A monster would rise up in its place. First, it would destroy the ones who had dared leash it. Then, it would turn and destroy all the rest.

It would save the children for last, letting them see all the others perish before them.

 _My life had become such a burden. . . ._

In dreams, the Silent One died before that could happen (was there such a thing as death? The humans could suffer it, and small vermin could be turned to ash. But, had any Silent One ever experienced it outside of dreams?). Though it remembered no name, it believed it had one— _still_ had one. If there was any truth in nightmares, then it had escaped that life before the worst could happen.

So, unlike many of the others, it never tried to escape the dreams. They were unbearable— _nearly_ unbearable—but they were better than oblivion of a dead heart, and (whatever else it remembered) it was certain it had earned them, every one of them.

The young one, the one that had attacked the human, was different. It burned with anger and resentment. Whatever road had opened the door for it to the House of Silence, the ashes of its heart screamed with the unfairness of it. It had been deceived, cheated. So it declared again and again. It did not deserve to be here.

All that fury had boiled over at the sight of the human. The Silent One almost thought the young one had recognized this mortal, impossible as that was. It seemed to blame the human for what had befallen it—or perhaps it only resented it for being free of the pain that was the Silent Ones' birthright.

Whatever it was, it had threatened the human on the road. The Silent One could almost say it had tricked the human into striking out, except there had been no trickery. Had the human not fought back, the young one would have shown no mercy.

The others hadn't seen it that way. Blaming the human for breaking the truce, they had shared in the young one's anger, feeding on it, using the human for the relief it could give them from their own minds.

Given time, they would have fed that darkness into the human till it died in madness and pain. The Silent One might have spared a moment's regret if that had happened on the Killing Plain, but that was the appointed fate of any foolish enough to go there. But, this had been on the road. This—this was _wrong._

So, it had fought against the pain and pursued the human, arriving first, watching to see what it would do.

As it waited for the human's response, one of the small crabs scuttled out of the mud and investigated the newcomer in its territory. The crabs were small parasites, feeding on small scraps of death and darkness. The Silent One had neither time nor interest for such things. It stripped away the creature's pseudo-life with barely a thought, letting it fall back into the dust that had created it.

That was a mistake. The human seemed disturbed by the simple act. Its grip tightened on something in its hand.

The Silent One had expected the flower. But, it wasn't. It was gold. It was living darkness, an echo of the dagger that had slain it (had it died? Had it ever been alive?). Shadows of nightmare swam before its eyes.

The human eyed it uncertainly.

"Why?"

It tried again. "Why are you afraid?"

The Silent One reached out towards the thing in her hand. It did no have human words or its own memories—but it knew. A shadow loomed over the object, darker than the House of Silence.

That was when it sensed the others. They were coming.

Had it alerted them? Could they sense the thing the human held? Or was it just the scent of a living soul drawing them?

The human braced itself, ready for a fight. One it couldn't win, the Silent One thought. The human was—what was the word?—exhausted. Humans were . . . _tangible_ in a way the Silent Ones were not. That physical dimension had limits on its energy and how much it could expend. It was near those limits now.

There was the talisman the human held, the one that seemed so terrible and yet so familiar. It was like the power of the Silent Ones—like the power of the world itself. Yet, it was wielded by this frail, mortal creature.

Though, mortals had their own, strange strengths, like the light of the Barrier, a light they endured with ease that drove even the Silent Ones before it.

It though of the light of human hearts (the heart it dreamt of, red embers turning to ash, surely that had been a physical thing, like the human before it?).

An intersection of powers, it thought, needing only a trigger, a trigger the human didn't know how to provide.

The Silent One did.

It lunged at the human, reaching for the talisman.

 _Open,_ it told it.

The ground beneath them obeyed, giving way.


	14. Story Hour

They were in a tunnel. No, a hallway. The walls a gold colored stone hung with tapestries of red and gold. Darkness crawled over them, slow and sluglike. The human lay unconscious on the brightly polished floor. The Silent One stood protectively over the human but had no power to drive the shadows back. Blindly, they oozed towards both of them, tentacle-like stalks reaching out to touch.

 _Belle dreamt she was falling from a tower set at the top of a Pyramid._

 _Avonlea._

 _It was a children's tale. Half-awake, half-dreaming, she remembered it. Avonlea, the Lesser Pyramid. It had existed ages ago—if it had ever existed at all. Even in the Hall of Scholars, no one had ever learned if there were any truth to the tale._

 _It had been smaller and weaker than the Pyramid Belle knew. Fearing either the growing weakness of the Pyramid or the closeness of even its highest points to the dark land below, they had fortified their watch stations in ways Belle's people had never needed to (unless they did, now that the Pyramid's light had already faded once. Thanks to her)._

 _Living inside that Pyramid, so the tale said, had been a beautiful maiden._

 _Of course, all heroines in ancient tales were beautiful maidens. Being too lovely for words and still unmarried was required for adventures. Well, Belle had one of the two down. Though, if irresistible beauty really counted, maybe she should have talked Ruby into doing this._

 _The beautiful maiden of this tale was the daughter of the Master of Defense for the Lesser Pyramid. Like Belle, both father and daughter had seen the signs that their Pyramid was failing. Like Belle, the daughter of the Pyramid had sent her cry out into the Night, hoping against hope for a voice to answer hers._

 _Far off in the Pyramid Belle knew, one of the Monstruwacans, the watchers against the Night, had heard her and answered. Armed and trained, he had set out across the darkness._

The Silent One reached out and touched the shadows. They were different than the small crab it had scattered to dust before. Those were the barest scraps of nightmare. These were something else. The Silent Ones themselves were made from darkness like them. It . . . remembered.

No, that was a foolish thought. Its kind did not forget. Its memories, when it bothered to recall them at all, were pure and clear.

This feeling . . . it was as if it were imagining the world itself had once had another shape, another _meaning._

And, yet. Light. Darkness. Voices hissing in its mind. Dark deeds and darker. Screams. Orders that could not be disobeyed.

The shadows were made of such memories. They hungered for more. That was what they were hunting for in the human, the Silent One realized as they touched it. A specific memory. It feel the quarry they were searching for: a name, a face, somewhere in her mind.

Why? it wondered. It was used to understanding its world and it thought it knew all its creatures. Why were the shadows hunting knowledge in this human's mind? And what would they do when they found it?

 _Trapped in the Night, Belle envied the hero his preparation._ He _had had training._ He _had had warnings what to expect in this world._

 _Hearing the tale as a child, other things had caught her attention, like the call the maiden had sent out. She had imagined it again and again, a cry with so much strength and desperation, it could be heard at the far borders of the world._

 _She had even made up her own version of it, along with the rest of the story, writing it out neatly to read to her mother later. It was nothing terribly poetic. "Help! Help! We're dying! Can you save us?" was about as far as her literary gifts had gone as a five-year old. She had imagined the beautiful maiden, her father, and a few other defenders gathered in their Pyramid's final stronghold as monstrous hounds, creepers, Silent Ones, Abhumans and other creatures of the Night gathered outside their gates. When all seemed lost, the hero appeared, offering to save them from their enemies in return for the beautiful maiden's hand. . . ._

 _Only, that wasn't the way the story really went. The Lesser Pyramid, if there ever was one, had fallen. The hero had arrived too late. He had arrived only to find the gates broken, the light of its barrier gone, and the bodies of the dead lying crushed and broken within._

The human seemed as confused as the Silent One was, remembering everything through a twisted haze. It caught glimpses of a story, a hero, a maiden ( _maiden,_ it thought, rememberingthe word. _Yes, this human was a maiden, a woman. There were other words: Mother, Father, Daughter, Son._

 _Child._

 _That word was important. It couldn't remember why. It remembered screams of pain, the pain of the dying, the pain of those forced to live. The pain of a mother weeping for its—for_ her— _lost child._

The Silent One should know this darkness, should understand it, but it didn't. It couldn't suck the small illusion of life out of them. So, it tried to drive them back instead. But, the shadows oozed past it. It might more easily try to hold back the tides of the sea.

 _Tides. Sea._ The words nibbled at the edge of its thoughts. It knew them. It almost remembered what they meant, stories from long ago. . . .

 _Some of the tales ended with hero finding her among the dead. Belle had dreamed that ending over and over again. The maiden fled to the tower with her father and a few others. As the creatures of the Night broke through, slaughtering all they saw, she had chosen the quicker, cleaner death, throwing herself from the Lesser Pyramid's tower._

 _There were other versions of the tale. Some said, when the hero saw the fallen Pyramid and called out in despair into the Night, she had answered. Somehow, without armor or diskos, she had survived, alone in the night, till he had found her. But, sick and wounded, she had already been fading as they fought their way back across the Night to the one refuge which still stood. She had grown weaker with each step. He had carried her those last miles (as a little girl, Belle had imagined him carrying her in his arms. When she was older, she realized it was more likely the beautiful maiden had been slung across the hero's back, piggyback style, like a rather large backpack. It was less romantic but it would have been much more practical, especially when he needed a hand free to hold out his diskos and fight)._

The shadows pressed hungrily, trying to push the human to think of the thing they needed, the fugitive memory that still escaped them. The images of the story shimmered in the human's mind. The Silent One caught a glimpse of a man, the face obscured. It wore armor like the human's. But, not like. The Silent One caught a glimpse of another image beneath it, a figure in scaled leathers, like pieces of dragon hide. . . .

 _The hero had run the last few miles, struggling to stay ahead of the creatures that had scented life and blood. He had reached the Pyramid at last, only to find she had died sometime during that last, desperate flight._

 _Or perhaps he had known. Perhaps, despite all the dangers of the Night, he had been unable to leave her corpse behind to the monsters that would have defiled and (eventually) devoured it, even at the risk of his own life._

 _There was, naturally, a version of the tale (told by mothers to their impressionable daughters) where this was not the end. There was a great memorial. For some reason, it was held in the necropolis of the Pyramid. The body (not yet reduced to ash) had been set out, and light from the Barrier (what had things been like in those days that there was so much light they could even imagine such a thing happening without any weakening of their defense?) had gathered round the still maiden's form, reviving her._

 _As a child, Belle had assumed it was light from the barrier. Now, having seen the light of the Tomb of the Sleeping Prince, she wondered if there were something more to it—and if there might be more truth to the tale than she thought._

Not enough. There was no answer. Frustrated, the shadows pressed closer, drinking in the warm glow of life from her body, licking at the gentle glow of her soul.

 _Or perhaps, Belle thought, feeling the pain in her body, all the tales were wrong. Perhaps the creatures had captured the maiden after all._

 _In her dream, Belle imagined a woman's voice (not her mother's, she couldn't remember who this was)._

" _They were cruel to her," the voices hissed. "They tortured her with scourges and flaying._

" _Till she threw herself from the tower. She died."_

 _Died._

 _Belle remembered falling._

 _She felt the crushing blow of stone rising up to meet her._

 _She threw herself from the tower, that was how the story went. And, really, there was only one ending that had ever made any sense._

 _She died._

The Silent One watched as the human's breathing slowed, the glow of life beginning to fade as the darkness moved in to finish its feast.

 _No, Belle thought._ **No.** _Even in her dreams, she felt her hand tightening around something hard and round. The wheel warmed in her hand._

 _You're_ **lying** _, she told the dream voice. I'm real. I'm_ **alive** _._

 _The beautiful maiden never gave up. She believed in him. She believed in herself. She_ **never** _stopped fighting._

 _And, beautiful or not,_ **this** _maiden doesn't die from a little fall._

Another voice, familiar, unfamiliar, seemed to fill the room.

With a high pitched giggle, it said, _Do you know something? She's right. Her deal is struck._

And then darkness rose up out of the gold, darkness stronger and angrier and _hungrier_ than the small shadows crawling around them.

 _You wanted to see my face?_ the shadow asked. _Well, dearies, here it is._

The Silent One watched as the oozing, shadowy slugs were torn to shreds. It heard their silent screams, and it watched as their tattered remains tried to fly away.

They didn't make it. The Silent One wasn't sure what it saw. The wheel, it was certain, was as dark as anything in the room, but it may have burnt away the shadows like summer sun.

Or it may have hungrily gathered them in, like stray threads from spinning, and devoured them.


	15. The Other Side of the Mirror

Emma didn't know what had happened. Somehow, Gold had gotten himself into the mirror.

Except he was still kneeling in front of it, the scaly him who dressed like a fairy tale rock star. The him in the mirror (bending over the unconscious, dirt-covered Belle because, of course, he was) was the perfectly dressed Gold she knew from Storybrooke in one of those suits whose buttons were worth more than Emma's car.

A wave of dizziness hit Emma. Was this some kind of spell Gold had been messing with? She knelt down, hoping the room would stop spinning.

They'd watched the shadows ooze off the walls, turning into really gross, giant slugs that had reached out to Belle with their eyestalks (ugh!). Emma didn't know what they were, but she'd been pretty sure this wasn't a good thing. Even the Dark One had tried to stop them, not that he'd had any luck.

And, then, _something_ happened. The shadows got sucked into the spinning-wheel-thing Gold had sent Jefferson off with. There'd been a sort of wavery-shadowy thing, a little like a projector trying to come into focus and lighting up really slowly while it did, and, bam, Gold was there.

And Emma was here, alone with an empty chrysalis of a wizard. Only—

Emma shook her head, trying to clear it. It didn't help. Something was wrong. All of this was wrong. She could feel her magic being drained into the other side of the mirror, leaving her empty.

"Gold," she whispered. "Gold— _Rumplestiltskin._ Get your scaly hide back here before. . . ." The words trailed off. Numbness was spreading through her.

"Gold," she didn't know if she said the words or thought them. "Get back here. . . ."

X

Belle opened her eyes then blinked as dust got into them. No, not dust. Earth. Dirt. The ground the Silent One had collapsed beneath them. She tried to brush it away.

"Careful, that was quite a fall you had. How do you feel?"

There was a man sitting beside her, watching her anxiously. He had gentle, brown eyes and brown hair worn rather long for a man. His face was very thin and his clothes were worn and ragged.

"Who are you? Are—are you from the Pyramid?"

He gave her a sad, shy smile. "No, I'm from the Castle." He looked around. Belle, following his gaze, saw they were in a room like nothing she'd ever seen before.

 _Except she had._

Belle tried to shake off the feeling of familiarity. There was nothing like this in the Pyramid. There were hangings on the walls, pictures somehow woven out of brilliantly colored thread. Beautiful as they were, who had time to make such things or the tools to do it?

X

The tapestries were creepy, Emma thought. Gold's weren't so bad, unicorns, queens, a couple of expectant mothers chatting with each other. This one had a unicorn, too. Except somebody had just chopped the head off the unicorn and was holding it up by the horn, smiling. Another showed a guy who seemed to be leaning over a fountain and looking down at another guy. Emma would have figured it was his reflection, except you generally didn't grab your reflection by the neck and hold it underwater. A third one reminded her of the Pied Piper, only the Pied Piper was a tall, cloaked figure. His hand—a clawed, scaly hand, like Gold's—was held up, somehow holding back the children's parents. Some of them held their hands to their throats, as if they were choking. Others writhed on the ground. The children, instead of dancing along happily, shuffled like captives. They looked helpless and trapped. They were all armed. The weapons were a hodge-podge, polished swords, broken spears, a quiver full of mismatched arrows. The cloaked figure was marching them towards a battlefield.

X

Belle had always been pale, Rumplestiltskin thought. But, in this world, she had the milk-white skin of someone who had never seen the sun. Snow White would be jealous—except Snow, somewhere back in the Pyramid, must be even paler. The whole town would be descending on Tom Clark's en masse to buy sunscreen when he finally got them out.

He'd half-expected her to scream when she saw him. Instead, she looked puzzled as she got the dirt out of her eyes. Her pupils looked all right, and he didn't see any obvious signs of concussion. "Careful," he warned her. "That was quite a fall." Would this projection of him be able to heal her if she were injured? "How do you feel?" he asked anxiously.

"Who are you? Are—are you from the Pyramid?"

Was he from the Pyramid? Rumplestiltskin looked down at his scaled hands. He was wearing silk and leather with boots that might have taken over half-an-hour to lace up if he did it without magic. Was there anyone _like_ him in the Pyramid? A dozen, ironic replies went through his mind. _I'm from the House of Silence._ True enough, in its way, and the last answer he could possibly give her. "I'm from the Castle." The Dark Castle, if he were to give it its proper name, but when had he ever been proper?

"What's that?" Belle asked. "You mean the Lesser Pyramid? That's just a story. And it's gone." Uneasiness flared into her eyes. "Isn't it?"

"I likely know less than you do about the Lesser Pyramid," Rumplestiltskin said. "The Castle is beyond this," he said, waving a hand to take in their general surroundings. "It's in a place where light still lives."

"Light. . . ." Belle breathed then shook her head. "That's just a story."

"You believe it enough to be here."

"I—" Belle stopped. What did she think would save her people? The Barrier—and its light—were dying. What else could save them?

Belatedly, she seemed to remember something else she was forgetting. She said the name the people of the Pyramid called the Word.

Diligently, Rumplestiltskin started to say it back. It burned in his throat. _Light,_ he thought. _Of course._ In this world, that name summoned light magic. It hadn't bothered him when he said it in his own world. Here, it was different.

But, it was a name he had as much right to say as anyone else in this world and more than many. Focusing on that and stealing himself against the pain, he said it again.

Belle frowned. She'd noticed his hesitation.

"You need to get moving," Rumplestiltskin said. This place isn't safe. The shadows have been beaten back for a while, but there will be more." There were always more.

Belle looked around at the rich carpets on the polished, wooden floors. Then, she looked at the tapestries on the walls. There had been nothing like this in the Pyramid, Rumplestiltskin remembered. That was a world of bare essentials.

"What is this?" Belle asked. She pointed at the tapestries. "What are those?"

"Memories," Rumplestiltskin said. He knew these stories. Narcissus, cursed by an angry Dark One, had become (quite literally) insane with jealousy. He had seized his own reflection and held it beneath the waters of certain fountain. But, Narcissus had been the one who drowned. The unicorn had died for no reason at all, because that Dark One had been vicious and cruel.

And there was Zoso, Rumplestiltskin's immediate predecessor, enslaved by the Duke and leading the children to war.

It hadn't been that way, not exactly. Zoso had made examples here and there, making sure anyone who rebelled was properly punished. The children had been sent off to war in ones and twos, armed with whatever weapons their parents could press into their hands before they were taken or that the Duke's army could scavenge. He looked at the hooded figure standing nearby. He'd never experienced Zoso's dreams—he'd never forced them down Rumplestiltskin's throat the way so many of the others had—but this was the I mage that haunted him.

"These are the nightmares of the Silent Ones," he told her. "I think you've felt them already, haven't you? You need to keep moving if you don't want them to catch you again."

"Why?" Belle asked. "What is this place?"

"What this whole world is. The Silent Ones' dream. You are standing in the House of Silence."

X

"The House-?" Belle pulled herself up. She wanted to rest, to ask more questions, but she believed him when he said there was no time. She'd left the House of Silence far behind. It couldn't be here. Even if it was like the Pyramid, stretching far beneath the ground, it _couldn't_ be this far.

Could it?

She should be terrified. She should be on the verge of screaming and being overwhelmed with fear.

Instead, she was only tired. The Abhumans didn't make places like this. Who else could have done it besides the Silent Ones? Belle accepted it. Maybe she'd feel terrified later.

"You could help me up," she accused.

The stranger shook his head. "I can't. I'm . . . not here. Not the way you are." He waved a hand to the ground. "I don't have a shadow. Do you see? If you tried to touch me, your hand would go straight through me."

"Oh," Belle wasn't sure what to say to that. "Well, let's get moving then, shall we?" The man and the Silent one led the way. Belle followed after. After a few minutes, she said, "I wondered why you weren't wearing any armor."

The man glanced down at himself. "What do I look like to you?"

"Sorry?"

"What you see is a . . . memory, an image. What does it look like to you?"

"A . . . man," Belle said. "Just an ordinary man." Not that ordinary was the right word for those warm, soulful eyes of his or for that quirk of a smile he had, all sad and gentle at once. "Your clothes are different from mine, more worn. You walk with a limp. And you use a—a—I don't know what the word for it is. It's bigger than any cane I've seen but it's not a crutch. The color and lines, it looks like the floor in this place. I don't know what it's made of either."

"Wood," he said. "It's a staff made of wood."

"Wood," she repeated. "That's . . . organic stuff, isn't it? Grown from certain kinds of plants that live multiple years. We don't grow that kind. It takes up too much energy and space that isn't related to food production."

"What, no apples in this world? Regina must be disappointed. Trust me, if you live in a world with light, wood is a useful thing to have. So are trees." He shivered. "I haven't much time. Call on me, if you need me. Use the wheel. Don't use the rose. Not unless there's no other choice." He looked at the Silent One. "If you keep her safe, Zoso, I'll owe you a debt. If you fail, I'll owe you for that, too."

 _Zoso._ The Silent One had a name, and it was Zoso.

And this man knew it.

"How—" Belle began, but it was too late. Like a shadow when light slowly filled a room, the man faded and was gone.

X

Belle opened her eyes and blinked as dust got into them. She'd had a dream. Hadn't she? She was standing in an underground hall, the Silent One watching her with glowing eyes.

 _Are we in the House of Silence?_

She wanted to ask the question but didn't. It was as if the question were the opposite of the Word, sounds that would summon darkness instead of driving it back.

 _Was that real?_

Another question she didn't dare ask and for the same reason.

"Lead on," Belle said.

The Silent One (Zoso?) nodded and drifted down the hallway. Belle followed.

X

Emma felt hands on her shoulders. Sounds that might almost have been words echoed distantly. She felt _something_ flowing into her. It was—

 _Horrible._

 _Delicious._

 _Cloying._

 _Sweet._

—familiar and strange at the same time.

"Miss Swan?"

Words. The sounds were words. She almost understood them.

"Miss Swan—Emma—you need to take what I'm giving you and change it. From dark to light. They need it, Emma; and you're the only one who can give it to them."

 _Light._

She . . . remembered. Almost. Magic is power. Someone had told her that. Power could be changed, one kind feeding another. Like—like a lens made from ice used to focus light and make heat. She could do this.

Feed the magic inside her. Strengthen the light.

Slowly, the room came back into focus.

Gold was kneeling across from her, his hands on her shoulders, concern etched across his face.

"Miss Swan? Are you all right?"

"What—what happened?"

"Ah, that." Gold glanced at the mirror showing Happy Horror Holiday Land, aka the Underworld. "I was . . . drawn in. In a sense."

"You were here. The you in the mirror didn't have scales."

"Oh?" Gold asked curiously. "What did he look like?"

"Like you, the real—the Storybrooke you, Armani and gold cane and stuff."

"Really? How interesting. My mind went there. But, when it did. . . . I've been trying to share some of my power with you, Miss Swan. You understand that, don't you?"

Emma nodded. "You said the Pyramid is drawing on my magic, light magic, to keep everyone safe."

"Yes, but there are limits. You've already felt these."

Emma nodded again. "When Belle drove off the Dark Ones with the rose you gave her. How did that even work?"

"I told you how Belle took the rose to a lower level of the Pyramid, didn't I? It was a garden, once. And a cemetery."

The cemetery had been in the middle of the night. Unlike Gold, Emma needed to do things like eat and sleep. And how had a place that had never been anything but a dark hole in the ground 'once' been a garden? "You could have woken me up for that, you know."

"You need rest, Miss Swan.

"Whatever. You said Belle took the rose to something that looked like the Mills family tomb."

"Indeed. Inside, there was something that looked very much like your mother's coffin, the glass one the dwarves made for her. There was something—some _one_ inside, someone who did something to the rose, bestowing certain powers on it—and linking it to the power of the Pyramid."

"My power."

"Correct. That's what she drew on to drive the Dark Ones away."

"I remember. I felt like my guts were being ripped out." That had been bad. It wasn't just what was happening to her. If Gold hadn't helped her as quickly as he did, that might have been it for the barrier.

"Even in their weakened state, the Dark Ones are formidable. Especially there, in their own realm. Driving them back is no simple matter. But, do you realize who helped Belle? Who was in that coffin?"

"Regina?" Emma guessed. "You said it was her name on the tomb. That would be all kind of irony, Regina in Snow White's coffin."

"Indeed it would be. But, no, the tomb said _Reginae_ , belonging to the queen. And, whoever is in there is drawing on _your_ magic. I suspect he manipulated the curse as well, the last fragments of it. That's what gave him the power to create the Pyramid, along with memories that let the people survive there." He paused. Emma had dealt with enough bad news to recognize when someone was getting ready to hit you with it. "Storybrooke was shaped by Regina's curse and by your mother's," Gold said carefully. "Someone linked to both of them would have the best chance of taking what was left and making this. It also wouldn't hurt if the person doing it had some link to the Dark Curse to help him deal with that world."

Emma stared at him. "Henry? You think—the Pyramid—my magic making the barrier—that's all been done by _Henry?_ "

"Why not, Miss Swan?"

"Why not? Because—because—why would Henry even make a place like that? Aren't castles and fairy tales more his thing?"

"And video games and comic books. I've also seen some of the novels Henry likes to read. What do they call it? Post-apocalyptic fiction? Stories where the last survivors of humanity are holding out in their final stronghold are very popular these days."

"This is _Storybrooke_ , not The Hunger Games. And—and—" she tried to think of another reason Gold had to be wrong. "What about that stupid rule? Men can go into the Night and women can't? Where would _Henry_ come up with something like that?" OK, he was a thirteen year old boy, but he was _her_ thirteen year old boy and should know better.

Gold gave a sad laugh. "Can't you guess, Miss Swan? This world, Henry's part of it, was shaped by his own fears and dreams. It's built from things he _feels_ , not things he thinks and knows."

"Have you ever given anyone a straight answer?"

"More often than you'd think, for all the good it's done. Miss Swan, how many times have you nearly died trying to protect Henry and others? While Henry couldn't do anything to help? How many times has he been the _reason_ you were in danger? Henry wants to save everyone—he takes after you in that respect—But, if you asked him to picture one face to represent all the ones he wanted to keep safe, whose face would he see? Just for once, Henry wants to be the one who faces the darkness while you and everyone else he loves stay safe."

"But, he can't leave the Pyramid."

"No, he can't. And he helped Belle to go. I don't know if he remembers Storybrooke or not, but he's still your son. He knew what needed to be done."

Henry. _Henry_ was all that stood between everyone she loved and the Underworld destroying them. Maybe Gold had a point. Right now, there was no end to the list of stupid rules Emma would make if it would keep Henry safe.

She remembered the power being torn out of her. It was the worst pain she'd ever felt. What was it doing to Henry?

If Gold was right. Just because he usually was didn't mean he had to be. "You don't know," Emma said. "You don't know it's him."

Gold laughed again, soft and sad. "I'm afraid I do, Miss Swan. There's a word the people from the Pyramid say to drive back darkness, a word that draws on that light magic just by being said or thought. I've been able to send it to Belle when we communicate. That's why—" his mouth twisted bitterly, "—she thinks I'm not a demon. When I was in that world and said it to her, it burned in my mouth. I could only say it because, well, I _am_ the Dark One, the most powerful one there's ever been."

"And humble," Emma said. "Don't leave that out."

"With you around to remind me? Never. But, the other reason is much simpler. Dark or light, I have a right to say my grandson's name."


	16. When Rules Break

Being chased, caught, many arms pinning him to the ground—never mind that he didn't understand _how_. Weren't they dead and bodiless? What was there to grab hold _of?—_ and the Pain forced into him, poured into mind and nonexistent flesh. Phantom pain of a most literal sort. . . .

Watching the mirrors, it was impossible not to remember being dead.

The Pain, that was what they called it, the dead Dark Ones. Rumple wondered if other dead experienced the same thing. It seemed depressingly likely. It was too perfect a punishment.

The dead lived through the memories of all those they'd harmed. Or (judging by Rumple's own experience) the ones they'd harmed wrongly. He'd never lived through a memory of Cora's or Hook's—not even Milah's, though he was sure there was a debt there.

And never one of Bae's. Whether that was blessing or curse, he didn't know.

Perhaps he just hadn't been dead long enough to get to them.

But, that had left Pain enough. And it wasn't all. It was the peculiar curse of the _last_ Dark One that the others could share that Pain with him. They found relief forcing it into him.

Now and then, there were mortals who found their way into the Underworld (as any necromancer could tell you, getting into the Underworld is easy. It's getting out that's the tricky part). Sooner or later they were caught. Ghost after ghost forced their remembered Pain into the victims.

But, those were mortals. A few days or a few hours, that's all they were good for. There were also only so many memories they could hold at a time. A Dark One's capacity was nearly infinite.

Nimue said it was because he'd broken the chain. He'd destroyed their hope of escape, their dream of walking once again in the daylight world. Rumplestiltskin still remembered her cold fury. Forgiveness hadn't been part of her during life and death had done nothing to soften her.

He was part of the chain, linked to all the ones who had gone before. If he couldn't free them from the Pain of death one way, he would free them another.

That was the world Belle was in, those were the enemies surrounding her. One of them was walking only a few steps in front of her.

But, Zoso had never tortured him he reminded himself.

Not all of his brothers and sisters had heeded Hook's call to come into Storybrooke and find their prey. Not all of them had been so desperate to escape the shadows in their minds that they sought him out. Whatever Rumplestiltskin might think of Zoso, he'd been content to live with his own past.

Rumplestiltskin looked at the tapestries in the mirror. Was Zoso haunted by the children who had died in the war? Did he live through their deaths, dying over and over again as they were slaughtered on the battlefield to buy a little more time for the seasoned warriors?

He hoped not. Rumplestiltskin knew what it was like to be ordered to kill by the one holding the dagger. He knew what it was like to be powerless to fight those commands. Surely— _surely—_ those deaths weren't Zoso's fault. In the end, he'd been willing to die rather than go on forcing children into that nightmare. That had to be worth something.

Didn't it?

Rumplestiltskin, looking at his own past, could only hope it was.

And, Zoso seemed willing to help Belle. So far. He'd helped her escape the others, the ones who had already tried to force feed their Pain to her.

Rumplestiltskin thought about what had happened on the Road. There were rules, even in death, that bound his kind. Belle should have had a short space of safety there. But, she hadn't.

The Pain was bad but it came and went (or it did if it wasn't being forced down your throat). It could also be pushed aside for a time, though there could be a cost if it were put off too long. Once Belle had tried to defend herself, she stirred up the hornet's nest. But, before that, no one should have been driven to madness with the need to attack her.

Or no one should have been driven to madness by the curse. There were other kinds of madness, human kinds.

There was one Dark One who hated Rumplestiltskin for reasons that had nothing to do with his death and return— the same Dark One who, in his life before the curse, had tried to kill Belle for no other reason except her death would hurt Rumplestiltskin.

The same Dark One had already shown he was willing to take every man, woman, and child in Storybrooke and trap them in the Underworld for all eternity for no other reason besides a petty grudge. He'd died claiming he wanted stop what he'd begun, but the result had trapped everyone in that nightmare world. That was the curse Belle was trying to undo. How far would he be willing to go to stop her?

Far enough to break the Road's neutrality, Rumplestiltskin thought. Far enough to break every rule that bound their kind if he could.

There would be consequences, Rumplestiltskin thought. He didn't know what form they would take, but there would be consequences. To Hook. To the Dark Ones. To the Underworld itself. Rumplestiltskin didn't know if the mortals trapped in that world would survive it.

He thought of the pirate he'd known. The man tortured beggars and stole their coins for laughs. He helped murder a village full of refugees who'd taken him in and offered him safety in a world where safety was a tale told to children. He'd shot Belle in the back, putting a bullet a hairsbreadth from her heart bare hours after she'd saved his life. He'd tried to kill (and worse than kill) the son of the woman he claimed to love for no other reason except it would hurt her.

The Dark One who had led the attack on Belle was Killian Jones. He might be on the verge of destroying his world, and Rumplestiltskin didn't know how to stop him.


	17. Remembrance of Things Past

The Silent One led the human through the tunnels after the Last One left, its mind spinning.

It remembered the Last One. Other fragments of the past slid through its memory, like scattered shards of a broken mirror flying past it, reflecting a pieces of a world it could almost recognize.

The Last One. It remembered the Last One. But, not like this. The Last One it remembered was barely a shadow of the creature it recalled—or the Silent Ones themselves were bare shadows of what they had once been.

It remembered the doorway opening, the call going out. The awaited day, some said, light and life to be theirs again ( _Life_. An odd word. It meant something the Silent One could not quite remember, something that divided this human creature from the rest of them).

Some had gone to the doorway, following the clarion call. The Silent One had watched them go and turned away.

The others had returned, and the Silent Ones—all of them—had been diminished. It could not remember how or why. But, the creature it had seen, the Last One, it shone with a terrible glory the Silent One could almost remember.

It led the human through the tunnels, passing the images hanging from the walls. It saw a creature it knew was itself torturing the parents of a frightened child.

 _Parents. Child._ Those were other, strange words. It meant something like and unlike the links that bound the Silent Ones. The meaning hovered at the edge of its mind. When the Pain came, it was quite sure it understood them.

But, not now. Now, all it knew was that these images stirred up the same feelings it had had on the bridge when the others tried to attack this human. These things were . . . wrong.

Other images passed, losses, angers, griefs. Some it seemed to recognize, some it did not.

"Wait," the human said.

The Silent One turned. The human had stopped by a painting. A broken vase carved from jade, welded back together with seams of gold, stood before it on a table carved from rosewood, like an offering. It was nothing unusual, another Silent One's past and Pain. But, this one—this one had the human in it.

X

The pictures seemed to whisper to Belle as they hurried past them.

 _They thought they could escape,_ laughed a shadow soaring over a field of dead.

A pale figure stood trapped at the window of a ruined house. _She traded all their lives to inherit,_ a woman giggled. _I took them all, and now she'll never leave it._

Soldiers left off bandaging their wounded as the trumpet sounded, summoning them back to battle. Far away, a hooded figure watched. _My life had become such a burden._

 _Revenge is sweet. . . ._

 _I have broken what can't be mended. . . ._

 _If the world burns, then let it burn. . . ._

 _Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair. . . ._

 _I will love nothing. . . ._

Belle stopped and turned. She knew that voice.

There was a painting on the wall. A man—no, not a man. Some kind of Abhuman, scaled and clawed, dressed in fanciful clothes. His shirt, like the small bag that held the gold wheel Jefferson had given her, was made of _silk._ The rest was made of . . . of . . . _leather._ That was what it was called: _leather._

He stood protectively, standing between a human woman and an ocean of dangers , grim and unseen. His expression was firm and resolute.

And yet—and yet—

That was the picture looked at from one angle. Looked at from another, the woman was about to take the first step in walking away. She looked lost and abandoned. From this side, the Abhuman's protectiveness was invisible. His back, turned against her, was cold and rejecting. Whatever danger he was looking at, he didn't see the dark shadows behind him, already reaching for her.

But, the woman. Her clothes were as fanciful as his. She wore a blue _dress_ with a wide _skirt_ (Where had she learned these words? How did she know them?) _._ At least, the man's clothes looked practical. He could run and fight in them, with no loose cloth to be grabbed onto to pull him back.

 _She died,_ the voice whispered. _That's the thing about true love, dearie, it can slip through your fingers. . . ._

The woman.

She was weaponless. She wore strange clothes, impossible to fight in, like nothing Belle had ever seen.

Her face was Belle's face.

 _She died,_ the voice whispered.

 _A brief flicker of light in an ocean of darkness._

Anger, grief, rage, guilt, they washed over her, memories of what had been lost.

 _She died._

 _I didn't,_ she tried to whisper back. _I didn't die. She lied, Rumple. The queen lied._

Rumple.

Rumplestiltskin.

She . . . she was Belle of Avonlea, Princess of the Marchlands, Mrs. Gold of Storybrooke,

This picture . . . it was a memory. No, not a memory. Guilt, this picture was guilt—the guilt Rumple felt for what Regina had done to her.

All these pictures, all these images, they were the memories and sins of the Dark Ones. She looked down at the jade and gold vase in front of the painting. For a moment, the green shards with their golden veins reminded her of a tree. Then, it was a man screaming in agony.

 _Merlin._

The images that had floated through her mind on the road, they were the Silent Ones' crimes but seen through the eyes of their victims. The sailor boy whose past she had lived through, the pirate who killed him was Hook.

Hook was here.

And he remembered her.


	18. Desperate Souls

Belle's heartbeat hammered in her ears.

This wasn't right. None of this was right.

Realizing it was all a bad dream was supposed to be when things started to get better, when you began to wake up. Instead, it only let Belle see how horribly wrong this nightmare was.

Moments ago, she had known the Pyramid still stood, that it had stood for eons beyond counting. It might be dying, but there was still time. Whatever terrors made up this world, her people understood them and had fought them for generations.

Now, she knew that was a lie. They knew nothing. Their memories were all false. The barrier had stood for weeks—maybe days. And it was already dying.

Dying. Belle thought of the graveyard that stood at the Pyramid's foundation. She had walked past Neal's grave and not known what it was, the same way she hadn't understood _silk_ or _flowers_ or _grass._ They'd been words out of an alien, forgotten tongue.

Forgotten. Belle remembered her days in the asylum, the panic she still felt when she was closed in without a way out. But, the worst thing had been not knowing why, not understanding what was happening to her or why she was trapped, alone in the dark.

The underground hallway seemed to be closing in on her. Belle tried to calm herself, to breathe slowly and steadily.

The tomb. She hadn't recognized the tomb any more than she'd realized who had to be inside it.

It was the Mills' family tomb from Storybrooke. On the outside, only the name carved into the stone had changed. Instead of Mills, it said _Reginae_ , belonging to the queen, belonging to Regina.

And, inside. . . . Belle knew that coffin. She had seen the pictures of it in the book Rumple's grandson had shown her, the coffin the dwarves had made for Snow White. Except that coffin had been clear glass, so anyone passing by could see the figure inside.

She wondered why this coffin had hid that simple truth. After all, she wouldn't have recognized the sleeper inside any more than she had recognized his father's grave.

Henry.

As she thought the Name, she felt the small stirrings of power—of light magic—that rose with it.

 _Henry._ Son and grandson of the Dark One, child of true love born to the Savior of Storybrooke. Somehow, in whatever nightmare they were trapped in, he was the source of the power that kept them safe (or as safe as they were) from this world. Whatever this world was.

Belle looked at the Silent One and saw what it—he? She?—truly was for the first time.

"You're the Dark One," she said. "A Dark One."

The Silent One looked at her with glowing eyes as if considering her words and trying to understand them. Slowly, it nodded.

"Why are you helping me?"

The Silent One's burning eyes continued to study her. Cautiously, as if she were a deer it might startle into running, it came closer. The ghostly edges of what might have been sleeves if there had been any hands in them lifted towards her. There was nothing there, only darkness. But, claws seized her, long talons, like a hunter's trap, snapping tight around her wrists—

 _She was alone in a dark wood. Her heart pounded with terror. It was all she could do not to gasp for air as she fought back her fear. If this didn't work, her son would die. She thought of the men she'd seen who had died at the Ogres' hands, plucked apart like clever toys broken by a child looking for the secret of what made it go._

 _She brought out the knife._

 _Memories—a burning castle—the pain in her leg as she did her best to race through the flames, searching—the sight of the blade now clutched in her hand—_

 _She saw the name engraved on the metal: Zoso._

 _If this could work, if she had any hope at all, that was the creature she had to face._

" _Zoso!" she called, trying—and failing—to sound firm. "Zoso!" she tried again. "I summon thee—"_

 _And nothing happened._

 _She waited, not wanting to give up. But, the silence stretched on._

 _Nothing. It had all been for nothing._

 _Her son would die._

 _The bitter, familiar taste of helplessness rose up in her throat. She turned back. Her leg burned with pain. Too much. She'd done too much on it today. Could she even make it back home in time to see her boy before they took him? Or would he be dragged off to die thinking she couldn't face him one last time?_

 _She took that first, struggling step—and nearly ran into the monster she'd called._

 _She dropped the torch. A few leaves sparked, but the ground was too damp for the fire to spread far. She wouldn't have noticed if the whole forest caught fire. The dagger. Her panicked mind had room for only one thought. Her fingers tightened around the weapon in her hand. She had to hold onto the dagger._

 _The shadow, dark and hooded, loomed over her. The only thing she could make out of his face was his smile. "You were asking for me?" His voice was full of mockery, a wolf toying with a lamb._

 _Was there any truth in the beggar's tale? She was nothing. Less than nothing. How could she command this demon?_

 _Bae, she thought. She had to save Bae._

 _She held up the dagger between them, whether to show she had the power or to make some desperate effort to protect herself with the blade, she couldn't say._

" _Submit, Dark One!" she told him, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "I control you!"_

" _Yes, you do," the Dark One agreed. His smile was catlike, and she was the mouse he was playing with. "Wield the power wisely." He paused, waiting for her to do . . .what? "You can wield it any time now," he told her._

 _Then, he looked away, towards the horizon. "It's almost dawn. That means it's your son's birthday."_

 _He knew who Bae was. How? The catlike smile broadened. "I bet Hordor and his men are already on their way to your house."_

" _No!" Her voice quavered. "They can't take him!" But, the Dark One only stood there, doing nothing. He said she controlled him, but he did_ nothing. _And, every moment that passed brought her son closer to death._

" _You don't control them. You control me." Deep in the creature's hood, reptile eyes gleamed. "Have you ever wondered was he really your child at all?" the Dark One asked._

 _She'd heard the whispers in the village, the insinuations. How many times had Milah dropped hints while cursing her for giving Bae a coward's name—never her blood, only her name._

 _It didn't matter, she told herself as she had so many times before. Bae was the child of her heart. Blood . . . blood didn't matter. Did it?_

 _The Dark One went on. "Unlike you, he's not a coward and yearns to fight and die in glory."_

 _Coward. A coward's name. But, not a coward's blood_

 _No,_ no. _It was true what she'd told Bae. What the Duke wanted wasn't battle, it wasn't_ courage _. It was slaughter. She hadn't been a coward to flee that. And Bae—Bae wasn't some changeling just because he was too young to see it._

 _She couldn't let Bae die._

 _She looked at the demon standing over her and knew—_ knew— _it meant for only one of them to walk away from here._

 _Could it kill her? Was the dagger just a lie? A little trap it set out to catch fools like her?_

 _The creature saw the understanding in her eyes. He gave her the smile of a predator about to strike. Like Hordor before he had beaten her in the road, like her father before he had thrown her like a bone to his pet beast. "What a poor bargain that would be to lay down your soul to have your bastard son," he gloated, seeing how the words burned, like acid eating through her skin, burrowing into her heart._

" _So, I ask you," the demon whispered. "What would you have me to do?"_

 _She knew that malice. She understood it. He meant to kill her. Whatever she said, he would kill her as easily as he had swept aside Morraine's parents when he came for her._

 _Or that's what he thought. Fear—anger—desperation ran through her, and she did the one thing she would have never believed possible. The blade in her hand flashed outward, towards her enemy's heart._

" _Die!" she snarled, giving him her answer._

 _And the Dark One died._

 _But, not before she recognized him._

 _And, not before she realized she had been right. He had meant for only one of them to walk away alive. She just hadn't understood which one._

 _She saw the new name writing itself on the blade beneath the blood: Rumplestiltskin. . . ._

The Silent One released Belle.

 _Rumplestiltskin._

She understood.

Belle didn't doubt for a moment that what she had seen was true. That was how it had happened. That was how Rumple had become the Dark One.

She remembered Rumple desperately searching for a way to save not just himself but all of them as his heart had been darkening. When the last spark of light in it died, there would have been nothing left but a monster. What was it he had told Regina? "You don't want to face the Dark One when no one else is home."

Was that what had driven this Dark One? "My life had become such a burden." He was a slave, forced to send children to their deaths. There'd been relief in his eyes as he died.

He'd been answering her question, Belle thought, telling what she needed to know. And she thought she understood how.

"The nightmares," she said. "The—the images I saw on the road. Those were memories? But, not your memories." If there was one thing she was certain of, this wasn't Rumplestiltskin. So, who did that leave? "Memories of people you harmed. You're Zoso, the Dark One before Rumple."

The Silent One bowed his head in agreement.

"Then this. . . ." Belle remembered a book she'd read in the Storybrooke library, _The Inferno_. It was a story about life after death—and the punishements that befell the guilty. "This is the Underworld. You're dead."

Again, the Silent One agreed.

"And, what you showed me, is that your punishment? To—to relive the wrongs you've done?"

Another nod.

"Then, we—everyone in the Pyramid—what are we doing here? Are we—are we dead?"

 _Dead,_ she thought, _and damned._ Why else would their souls be here?

The Silent One's burning eyes regarded her the way he had once watched Rumplestiltskin, like a wolf toying with a lamb. It was the only answer he had to give her.


	19. Shadow Talk

The Silent Ones spread out over the barren land, looking for the human. One Silent One, the youngest, prowled along the edge of a pit. _It had to be here,_ the Silent One thought, _it_ **had** _to._ It knew the human. Its face was in the Silent One's nightmares.

Dreams were memories of a former life, so some of the others said. The nightmares—and the Pain they brought—were other lives they had lived.

The Silent One didn't see why that should be so. Whatever had happened was in the past. Why should they have to suffer for it? And, if it was the Silent One's past life, what did the human have to do with it?

But, it had seen that human, time and again, reliving the pathetic creature's pain, or watching it suffer through the eyes of some other mortal who actually cared about the wretched thing.

It had seen the human flee through rooms full of ancient tomes, pursued by another of its kind with a metal hook for a hand. Another time, it watched as the human received what _should_ have been a death blow, a piece of metal lodging near its heart. Instead, it lived. It _always_ lived. Even when the human was chained and beaten by an enraged mortal, one bent on killing it, it somehow survived.

In the visions the Silent One felt pain and horror. But, when it was in its own mind, it only had resentment for the weak creatures whose lives—and deaths—it was forced to witness.

This human especially. It was cowardly and weak, running instead of fighting. Chained and helpless, it had tried to _reason_ with the human that had nearly killed it.

Every memory, every _thought_ of that creature filled him with rage, more rage than memories of the strange, weakling, puling human it sometimes saw with her. Small, brown-eyed like some helpless, half-grown beast, it knew it hated that human with a fury that had burned inside it as long as it could remember.

Until it saw this human. Alive. _Here._ Somehow it knew— _knew_ —hurting this creature would hurt that one even more. It remembered this human begging the other to show mercy and being heard. It didn't know why, but its anger boiled at the memory, the _humiliation_.

It would find the human and it would force it to live through the echoes—the Pain—the memories—whatever those things were—till it died screaming. It scanned the dark, barren horizon one more time, looking for the creature's small spark of life.

Then, if felt the call.

It ignored it. This was what mattered. Let one of the others fetch and carry. It had work to do.

The call came again, insistent.

 _No,_ it answered back.

It had expected anger, even threats. Instead, there was only amusement. Something pulled on it, like a stray thread being tied back into place.

The Night was gone. It stood within the House of Silence.

X

The inside of the House were always shifting, changing. Nowhere was that truer than in the center of House, in the Heart of Silence itself. Today, it was a place of endless, gray mists. No horizon, no sky, only swirling strands of light and shadow.

The Mother of Silence was also there, watching him.

At first, she looked no different than any other Silent One, a ghost made of darkness and glowing eyes wrapped in a tattered cloak. But, it could sense the power that had brought it here, and her cloak darkened, the tattered edges smoothing as she approached. Every inch of her became more regal the closer she came. She was as proud and imposing as any queen. When she reached him, she pushed back her hood, and the Silent One saw her face.

Green as verdigris drawn from the sea, her eyes were blacker than Night's empty skies. She was beautiful, the Silent One thought, her face as calm and composed as the death masks of ancient kings.

 _Why did you not answer my call?_

The question was mild, without anger, but it touched a raw wound inside the Silent One.

 _The human,_ it told the Mother. _It is in the Pain I suffer, the memories I must live. That human was here. I would have found it, if you hadn't called me away._

 _Would you?_ The Mother seemed amused. _There are others helping her. I doubt you would have succeeded._

 _I would have! I would make that one_ pay _for what's done to us! Let it suffer and see how it likes it!_

Again, that sense of amusement. _Do you know what the Pain is?_ The Mother asked. _Our kind do not die, not truly. But, when we are driven out of life, we come here. While we wait for our chance to return, some of the rules of death apply to us._ The Mother's perfect features contorted in a grimace. _Mortal creatures must pay for their weaknesses in life. The wrongs they commit, the harms they do, in this place, they feel them, they pay the price and learn the truth of what they did._

 _Mortal creatures!_ The Silent One snarled. _We're not human. What does it matter what we do to them? Why should_ we _pay a price by_ their _rules?_

The Mother shrugged. _We shouldn't. But, in the beginning, this place was built for them, a slice of their Underworld. It is ours, now. But, we must still play by its rules. For now. Till the world is set right._

She smiled at him. _You almost did that, Killian._

 _Killian?_

 _It is your name. Dear boy, precious child, you alone had the courage and wits to call us back. But, you were fooled in the end. The worst of my children turned against you. You were tricked and you died. Then, even your memory of what you had lost was taken from you._

The Mother of Silence looked at him with her eyes that went on forever. _It wasn't fair,_ she told him. _All your sacrifice was for nothing. Because of him. But, we can make him pay._

She reached out towards the mists. The image of the human spun to life in them. The Silent One felt the anger burn in it again.

 _You will not harm her,_ the Mother said. _Not yet. The one who betrayed you, betrayed us, he stole the power that should have been ours, but he can still finish the work you began. He can let us back into our rightful place in the living world. And he will._

The Silent One shook its head. _No, the human has to pay!_

The Mother of Silence smiled. _Now he has his power back, it's time for him to do something for us. Because, powerful as he is, we still have magic and this is still_ our _realm. I don't think he'll be willing to wager we can't get to her and destroy her before he can stop us. He won't take that chance._

 _It's not enough,_ the Silent One said. _We suffer, while he goes free._

The Mother stirred the mists again. They formed into the shape of the Pyramid, the Last Redoubt. _The barrier is dying,_ she told him. _Not long ago, I saw it flicker and vanish. It was only for a moment, but it is falling at last._

 _When it falls,_ she said, _all the humans inside will be ours. You and the others may take them and play with them as you wish. All but one._ Once again, she gave him her beautiful smile. _There is one I claim. A child sleeps in the heart of Pyramid in a coffin of glass. You will bring him to me. When my traitor child makes his bargain to save the woman he loves, he will think he can still save the others once she's freed. We will give him their corpses, and I will kill this child before his eyes. He will die screaming._ That _will be our revenge._


End file.
